The Socialite Is Ready for Her Debut

After graduating from a socialite training course, my sister swears to marry into a wealthy family. To create encounters with Pierce Holden, the prince of the upper crust, she drives my car, wanting to tailgate him and run into his car.

I slam the brakes and tell her the Holdens aren't fools. We can't afford to pay for Pierce's car, even if we were to give up everything we have.

Later, Pierce throws a lavish wedding that stuns the country. My sister goes crazy with jealousy, saying that she would've been the bride if not for me stopping her back then. Out of resentment, she rams her car into me and kills me.

When I open my eyes again, I find myself in the front passenger seat. My sister smirks confidently, her gaze fixed on the expensive car ahead of us. "I'm sure Pierce will be enchanted by me once he sees me. I won't need to drive a dump like this once I get together with him."

This time, I don't stop her. She puts the pedal to the metal, making the car crash against the sports car worth a fortune.

With a violent crash, the sports car skidded forward for a moment before coming to a halt. The loud noise caught the attention of several passersby, who stopped to watch.

The car was severely damaged. The rear wing fell off with a loud clang, and the body was deeply dented.

But my sister, Quincey Scott, didn't seem to care.

She quickly recovered from the shock and touched up her makeup as she gazed into the rearview mirror. She intentionally messed up her bangs, rubbed her eyes to bring up tears, and touched up her lipstick just enough to make it look natural.

If I hadn't seen everything firsthand, I would've thought she was just a frightened little bunny.

After pulling her gaze away from the mirror, Quincey glanced at me. When she saw me sitting still, unfazed, she seemed surprised.

Just a moment ago, she had placed two thick cushions in front of herself as a buffer and then deliberately sped up when I wasn't paying attention.

If I hadn't been prepared and gripped the armrest tightly, I'd probably be slamming into the dashboard by now with a bruised face.

She had been like this since childhood, always scheming to make me look awkward and foolish, just to highlight her own graceful beauty.

"Pierce rarely shows up. Just follow my lead and don't ruin things for me." Quincey dipped her fingers in some powder and smeared it across my lips.

"When I become Pierce's wife, I'll have you work as a maid in the Holden residence. The pay will be better than what you're getting now."

With that, Quincey tugged down the collar of her tight knit shirt, opened the door, and stepped out of the car.

In my previous life, Quincey blamed me for ruining her chance of marrying into a wealthy family. She blamed me for everything that went wrong after that.

This time around, I was curious to see if she could truly change her fate with all her tricks.

Quincey's arrival caused quite a stir. A few guys by the roadside were already snapping pictures with their phones.

She was always proud of her figure. With that body-hugging skirt, she was naturally the center of attention.

Pierce Holden didn't get out of the car. A sharply dressed driver walked around the sports car, inspecting it. Then, he approached the window, bent down, and exchanged a few words with Pierce.

Quincey sidestepped the driver, who wanted to talk to her, and knocked on the car window. As she spoke, she wiped away fake tears with her fingers. Her hair fluttered in the wind, giving her an air of fragility.

A moment later, Pierce pushed open the car door and glanced in my direction. Then, his gaze shifted to Quincey.

The so-called prince of the upper crust was known for being mysterious and low-key. Countless actresses had tried to get close to him, but they never had the chance.

Quincey lowered her head and intertwined her well-maintained hands. Then, as if making some major decision, she pulled out her phone to dial the traffic police.

I saw Pierce wave his hand. He was signaling her to put the phone down. He stepped out of the car and headed toward mine.

Quincey had smeared a pale, chalky powder on my lips, and after a week of overtime and late nights, my lips probably looked ghostly pale. My face, too, was completely drained of color.

Through the window, I got my first up-close look at Pierce.

It was August, yet he still wore a scarf around his neck. A scar slithered up from beneath the scarf, wrapping over his left cheekbone.

Though it had been carefully treated, the scar was still uneven and pitted. It was a clear sign of just how deep the wound must have been.

Quincey also rushed over. Her tone was filled with concern as she said, "My sister suddenly got a stomachache, and I was rushing her to the hospital. I must've mixed up the accelerator and the brakes, so...

"No matter what, it's my fault. I'll compensate for the damage."

The situation seemed to stir something in Pierce. His cold expression softened just a little as he calmly said, "No need to rush. Get your sister to the hospital first. My driver, Wilson Powell, will handle the rest."

As Pierce turned to leave, Quincey quickly stepped in front of him and handed him a business card. "This is my number. I won't run away from my responsibilities."

Pierce looked at the white card in Quincey's hand. It said that Quincey was a partner at a vet and a visiting professor at Wingston Tourism College.

He scanned her from head to toe, then took out his phone. "No need to complicate things. Let's follow each other on Instagram."