The Second Life of a Discarded Heiress

Chapter 312

A month and a half ago, Clifford had turned his house upside down, searching every nook and cranny until he finally found those thick stacks of practice exams and notes.

The moment he flipped them open, his eyes burned with tears.

He could recognize Citrine's handwriting anywhere. Clifford could tell that every single page-half a meter high-had been painstakingly written by her, every stroke of the pen her own. She'd even highlighted the tricky topics, the common pitfalls, and marked out the most important concepts, making everything crystal clear.

After that, Clifford locked himself in his room, eyes red and swollen from crying. He carefully wiped every page clean, arranging the notes and exercises neatly on his desk as if they were priceless treasures.

For the next month and a half, Clifford barely left his room except for a single meal each day. The rest of the time he spent buried in those notes, working through the problems, reading and rereading every word she'd written.

When the six weeks were up, he sat the entrance exam for Primus Academy. Thanks to Citrine's notes, he passed.

But he didn't go. He told himself he didn't deserve it.

Now, Clifford lay motionless on the ground. Travis glanced over, waved his hand, and signaled the others to stop.

Travis turned to his sister, his voice gentle. "Let's get out of here, Citrine. This place is a dump. Let's go somewhere

Citrine replied, flashing him a sweet, untroubled

and walked toward

reached the threshold, something yanked her pant leg, holding her back

was a streak of blood across the fabric where she'd been grabbed. Her nose wrinkled

she muttered. "These are brand new

her leg, but suddenly

leg released, Citrine curled her lips in a smirk and

other hand, didn't rush to

him

mind. He went

amount to anything. Then Citrine came along. She was like sunlight-she warmed me up, believed in me,

I've ever met. My grades? All thanks to her. Without her, I

gaze sharp and wild as he glared at Travis, as if he might lunge and tear out his throat