The Second Life of a Discarded Heiress

Kali's face was dark with frustration. She realized she'd let her desperation get the better of her, but regret was useless now.

Pressing her lips together, she finally turned and left Quentin's bedroom.

Downstairs, Jeanette was getting herself a glass of water. She looked up just in time to see Kali storming out of Quentin's room, her expression thunderous.

At this hour, rushing out of his room in such a state-what else could that mean?

Clearly, Kali had been a little too eager, but judging by her face, she hadn't succeeded.

A new idea began to take root in Jeanette's mind.

If Kali could try her luck, why couldn't she?

Theo had lost the Glenwood family's support, and lately, he'd grown colder by the day. She couldn't rely on him anymore. It was time to consider other options.

She glanced down at her lacy nightgown, barely more than a whisper of fabric, and a plan formed instantly.

A few minutes later, Jeanette carried a glass of milk upstairs and knocked softly on Quentin's bedroom door.

Inside the master suite, Quentin heard the knock and felt irritation prickle beneath his skin.

Not again.

Reluctantly, he opened the door.

For a split second, he was surprised-it wasn't Kali.

He raised an eyebrow. "Ms. Iverson, it's late. Did you need something?"noveldrama

Jeanette flashed him a perfectly sweet smile, offering the glass of milk. "Quentin, you've been so kind to me these past few days. If it weren't for you taking me in, I'd probably be out on the street right now."

She dabbed at imaginary tears, her face the picture of gratitude.

Quentin found the whole scene a bit odd but nevertheless took the milk from her hand.

"Thank you," he said, his lips curving in a polite smile.

But when Jeanette made no move to leave, Quentin's brow furrowed.

Sensing his confusion, Jeanette hurried to explain, "Quentin, how's your back? Has it healed at all?"

Before he could answer, she pressed on, "It must be tough to put ointment on your back by yourself. Would you like me to help?"

Before he could protest, Jeanette boldly stepped into the room and perched herself on the edge of his bed, uncapping the jar of ointment she'd brought along.

Has everyone gone insane tonight? Quentin wondered, eyeing Jeanette sitting on his bed.

"That won't be necessary. I've already taken care of it," he said, his tone clipped.

Standing above her, he couldn't help but notice how her nightgown shimmered against her pale skin, the hemoiding high on her thighs. It was blindingly obvious-and awkward.

He turned his head away, his voice tense. "You should probably go."

Seeing Quentin look down and away, Jeanette mistook his discomfort for bashfulness and grew even more confident.

Her thoughts drifted to the so-called "finishing school" she'd enrolled in recently. The place was infamous for teaching women how to land

wealthy husbands-lesson plans

packed with strategies for charming

and managing men.

According to the school's glossy brochure, sixty percent of their graduates married into old money.

Jeanette had signed up for the exclusive VIP class, which promised even better odds.

She'd already practiced her techniques on several men around town, and every one of them had fallen under her spell.

With that success bolstering her confidence, Jeanette beamed at Quentin. "Quentin, why are you sending me away? I'm only worried about you, you know."