Revenge Wears My Ring novel Chapter 112

He jerked his head up, his bloodshot eyes like poisoned daggers, stabbing furiously toward Gwyneth at the top of the stairs. His gaze brimmed with unbridled hatred and rage as he roared,

“Gwyneth! You snake! How dare you push Queenie? If anything happens to her, I swear I’ll make you pay with your life!”

Desiree stood among the crowd, watching the chaos unfold with an icy, satisfied smile—like a winner surveying the perfect disaster she’d orchestrated.

Gwyneth stood alone at the top of the staircase, weathering the onslaught of suspicion, accusations, contempt, and Julian’s overwhelming hatred from all sides.

She straightened her back, her eyes cold and razor-sharp, not a hint of panic in her expression.

She knew there was no point in defending herself now.

Instead, she simply looked down upon the scene: at Queenie’s pathetic performance, at Julian’s blinding fury, at Desiree’s thinly veiled delight.

Suddenly, the phone in Gwyneth’s hand buzzed.

On the screen, a message from Bennett appeared—no words, just a video file.

With a touch of hesitation, and a trust she barely noticed in herself, she tapped to play it.

The footage was crystal clear.

The angle—perfect.

It captured exactly what had happened at the foot of the stairs just moments before.

In high definition, every detail was laid bare:

How Queenie had clung to Gwyneth’s arm with feigned affection, forcefully pulling her closer.

How Gwyneth, repulsed, had tried to gently but firmly pull her arm free.

And then—just as Gwyneth’s arm was about to slip from Queenie’s grasp—how a flicker of calculation and malice flashed across Queenie’s face.

How, with no outside force, Queenie suddenly threw herself backward, her body hurling toward the stairs.

There was no fear in her eyes—only the naked glee of a plan falling into place.

Then, “naturally,” she tumbled down the steps, even making a show of twisting mid-fall to land on her stomach, shrieking in supposed agony all the while.

The evidence was ironclad.

Every movement, every glance, exposed the entire incident as a clumsy, self-orchestrated farce.

The last trace of doubt vanished from Gwyneth’s eyes, leaving only a glint of steel and the icy calm of someone in complete control.

Without a second’s hesitation, she forwarded the video to Lance, who was standing beside her, still stunned by the sudden turn of events. In a voice low and crisp, meant only for his ears, she commanded,

“Lance, put this video up on the main screen. Now.”

Jolted by the urgency in Gwyneth’s voice and the determination burning in her eyes, Lance instantly understood.

The silence shattered like glass, replaced by a tidal wave of gasps and frantic whispers.

“Oh my God—!”

“Did Queenie throw herself down the stairs?”

“With acting skills like that, she should win an Oscar this year!”

In an instant, every eye in the room shifted from Gwyneth to Queenie, who was still huddled in Julian’s arms, “moaning in pain.”

Julian froze.

Still holding Queenie, he stared at the screen, then looked down at the woman in his arms—her moans forgotten, her face drained of all color, terror written across every feature.

He looked as if he’d been struck by lightning.

He went cold all over.

“No, Julian, it’s not true! The video is fake! It’s been doctored—Gwyneth set me up!” Queenie finally snapped out of her shock, shrieking in a desperate, shrill voice, trying to wriggle out of the noose she’d tied for herself. But her panic, her terror, had already given her away.

From the top of the stairs, Gwyneth watched the scene below—the pitiful farce Queenie had staged for herself, crumbling in an instant.

Her voice rang out—cool and clear, each word like an icicle dropping directly onto Julian’s heart:

“Mr. Locke, do you still want me to pay with my life?”