NovelFinishChapter 49 After the party began, Weston called Raymond away, leaving Citrine alone in the corner.
No sooner had she found herself standing solo than a man approached, eager for an opening.
"Miss, may I have the honor of buying you a drink?" The man wore a tailored black suit and exuded meticulous polish from head to toe. He'd been watching Citrine for quite stime, unable to hide the excitement in his eyes as he finally made his move-he'd never seen anyone quite like her before.
Citrine glanced over her shoulder at him, the hunger in his gaze making her stomach turn.
"No, thank you," she replied coolly, withdrawing her gaze with barely concealed disinterest.
She'd met his type more times than she cared to remember in her previous life, and she'd never had any patience for men like him.
Follow on NovᴇlEnglish.nᴇtThe man hesitated, clearly not expecting to be rebuffed so bluntly. His expression soured, but remembering that Citrine was Raymond's daughter, he swallowed his irritation and slunk away without protest.
He was hardly the only one. Over the next few minutes, several more men sidled up to her, each one harboring his own agenda-sdrawn by her beauty, others hoping to curry favor with Raymond through her. Citrine turned every one of them down.
High society gatherings like this were always built on self-interest, and Citrine found herself increasingly disenchanted. Rather than force herself to socialize and trade empty pleasantries for the sake of minor advantages, she decided she'd rather step outside for sfresh air.
The Carmichael family was the crown jewel of Havencrest's elite, and the hotel they'd chosen for the soirée was as luxurious as it got even the gardens were breathtaking.
As Citrine wandered through the manicured paths, she was suddenly startled by the unmistakable sound of bones snapping, followed by a man's muffled groan.
She took a few steps forward and stumbled upon a disturbing scene: a group of young men were viciously beating someone dressed in a waiter's uniform, fists and boots flying.
Nearby, another man lounged in a rocking chair, legs crossed, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He watched the violence unfolding before him with a detached amusement, as if he were merely observing the world for his own entertainment. He radiated a kind of untouchable, aristocratic arrogance.
Stray locks of dark hair fell across his forehead, and the shifting glow from the garden lights played over his features, highlighting and obscuring them by turns.
As Citrine's gaze lingered on him, the man seemed to sense her attention. He looked up and met her eyes directly.
For a moment, Citrine was struck by his face-handsome, with sharp, almost forbidding features and a wild, unyielding spirit in his eyes, like a stallion no one could ever hope to tame.
She remembered him instantly. In her previous life, she'd spent her entire youth trying-and failing to rein in this wild horse.
Back then, she hadn't met Theo Glenwood until she was eighteen. Now, fate had brought them together much sooner.
For a fleeting second, Theo seemed caught off guard by the sight of her. There was something strangely familiar about this girl, though he was certain he'd never seen her before.
He couldn't help but ask, "Have we met before?" "Never," Citrine replied, her voice calm. In her last life, she'd wished she could tear him apart, but now, seeing him again, she felt only a cold clarity.
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She looked away from Theo and focused on the crowd in front of him.
The ones delivering the beating were a gang of spoiled rich boys who followed Theo's lead in everything. They played rough, and tonight was no exception- their blows were merciless, as though they truly meant to beat the man on the ground to death.
Remarkably, their victim didn't make a sound. He endured the onslaught in silence.
Citrine's eyes lingered on him. He was strikingly handsome, but in a way altogether different from Theo. Where Theo was rugged and severe, this man was almost unnaturally beautiful, his features so finely carved they seemed unreal. There was a soft, seductive quality to his upturned eyes, a look that promised passion but offered no warmth.
Yet it was his gaze that unsettled her most-those bottomless black eyes, cold and unreadable, revealing nothing and hinting at everything.
The moment their eyes met, a chill swept through Citrine, seeping deep into her bones.
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