Revenge Wears My Ring novel Chapter 101

The road to the cemetery felt longer and heavier than ever.

Haven Cemetery.

Gwyneth stood at the gates under a steady, gray drizzle. Bennett stood beside her, holding an umbrella over them both with a gentle steadiness, and together they stepped into the cemetery, shoulders almost touching.

“Stanley, could you open the gate for us?” Gwyneth’s voice carried through the guardhouse—soft, clear, and laced with a quiet sorrow.

Stanley, the old caretaker, was where he always was, puffing on a thick cigar, his reading glasses slipping down his nose. He squinted through the rain, not recognizing her at first, but the moment she spoke, it all clicked.

“Ah, Gwyneth! Of course!” he called, pressing the button to let them in.

“Thank you,” Gwyneth replied warmly, pulling Bennett gently by the arm as they walked past Stanley.

Stanley peered at the man beside her, his vision clouded with age. He hadn’t seen this young fellow in years. Was it his imagination, or had Bennett grown even more poised—and, well, even more handsome?

A reverent silence hung over Haven Cemetery. Rain threaded through the ancient pines, soaking the stone path in silence, the air crisp with the scent of earth and wet leaves.

Gwyneth led Bennett forward, her steps heavy but unhesitant, moving toward a spot she could find even with her eyes closed.

Each step felt like walking across shards of memory—sharp, cold, and unyielding.

At last, the familiar gravestone came into view.

Her parents’ faces smiled back from the photograph, kindness and warmth forever etched there, as if time had never moved on, as if tragedy had never struck.

An invisible hand clenched around Gwyneth’s heart, squeezing the breath from her lungs.

She stopped, staring at those forever-frozen smiles. In that moment, every mask, every brittle layer of strength she’d built up, crumbled away.

Bennett stood half a step behind, watching her back go rigid, her shoulders trembling.

He said nothing. Instead, he knelt and laid a bouquet of white lilies in front of the headstone, then stepped quietly aside, giving her space.

Gwyneth moved forward with slow, reverent steps.

The cold rain soaked her hair at the temples, but she didn’t notice.

She reached out with trembling fingers, tracing the cool stone, brushing over the gentle lines of her mother’s eyes, the broad curve of her father’s mouth.

Tears burst forth without warning, scalding her cheeks as they mixed with the icy rain and splashed onto the slate path, leaving dark, spreading stains.

She bit hard on her lower lip to keep from making a sound, but her shoulders shook uncontrollably.

Dad, Mom, I’m so sorry… I’m so, so sorry.

Without hesitation, he stepped forward and held it out to her, the warmth of his hand still in the fabric.

Through blurry tears, Gwyneth saw the handkerchief—like a lifeline dropped down into the pit of her despair.

She lifted her tear-stained face, looking at him in confusion.

There was no pity or judgment in Bennett’s eyes—only a quiet, fathomless calm, like the sea itself.

He knelt so their eyes were level, his tall frame folding down to meet hers.

Then, with careful restraint but unwavering strength, he gently pulled her trembling body into his arms.

His embrace wasn’t warm—chilled by the rain—but it was broad and steady, like a harbor shielding her from the storm, holding back the biting cold and the relentless ache.

Gwyneth stiffened at first, then as if her strength ebbed out of her all at once, she collapsed against him.

She didn’t resist. Resting her forehead on his solid shoulder, all the pain, guilt, and hatred she’d bottled up for five years finally broke through, flooding out.

There, in his arms, she stopped trying to hold it in, silent sobs wracking her body as her tears soaked the expensive fabric of his suit.

Bennett said nothing. He only held her tighter, one hand gently patting her back as if she were a wounded child. His jaw was clenched, and his eyes, fixed on the two gentle smiles carved in stone, churned with an impossible tangle of emotions: heavy responsibility, fierce protectiveness—and perhaps, somewhere deep inside, a sense of fate he couldn’t quite name.