Revenge Wears My Ring novel Chapter 115

Those five simple words were the final straw, snapping the last thread of Gwyneth’s composure.

Holy hell.

No way.

It was true.

A rush of disbelief and a string of silent curses tumbled through her mind. She felt like a complete idiot.

But what was even more absurd—downright surreal—was the realization that she, Gwyneth, was now Julian’s sister-in-law?

She’d become the sister-in-law of her ex-boyfriend?

This was more twisted than the most melodramatic soap opera.

Suddenly, a question—sharp and desperate, like a drowning person clutching at the last floating piece of debris—shot to the surface.

Why?

Why was he the eldest son of the Locke family but went by the last name Boyd?

The mismatch in names was like a crack in an otherwise flawless mask, letting through a faint sense of something off.

In the chaos of her thoughts, Gwyneth latched onto this one point as an anchor.

She had to ask.

Drawing a shaky breath, she forced her voice to stay steady, though her fingertips trembled.

“One last question.”

She fixed her gaze on his deep-set eyes, enunciating each word: “Why is your last name Boyd? You’re Ben, the oldest son of the Locke family.”

Bennett didn’t seem surprised by her question.

He dropped his eyes, thick lashes casting a shadow on his cheekbones, hiding whatever flicker of emotion might have shown.

He was silent for a few seconds, as if recalling something, or perhaps searching for the right words.

Then he looked up again, his gaze settling calmly—almost indifferently—on Gwyneth’s face, as if he were talking about something trivial and far removed from himself.

“It’s nothing special.” His tone was flat, impassive. “Back then, ‘Locke’ just felt too complicated. ‘Boyd’ sounded simpler, so I picked it for myself. After a while, I just got used to it.”

Picked it?

Got used to it?

She stared at him. On that handsome face, there wasn’t a flicker of emotion—dropping his family name and changing identities seemed as inconsequential to him as changing his shirt.

Gwyneth didn’t press further. She turned and walked away.

Bennett or Ben—she hoped neither would ever become her enemy.

———

Gwyneth lay in bed, darkness swallowing the room.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to will herself to sleep.

But the conversation in the garden, Bennett’s offhand explanation, the shock of his real identity—it all crashed and collided in her mind, a riot of images and voices tearing at her peace.

Her restless thoughts were like cold hands, dragging her deeper and deeper into the abyss of her own mind.

Her tiny body somehow found the power to keep him from running into the flames.

“Let me go! My mom and dad are in there—let me go!” The boy sobbed, voice hoarse, fists pounding at her. His face was smeared with tears and snot.

His despair was so real, so thick, it threatened to drown her.

“We can’t! The fire’s too big! You’ll die!” Little Gwyneth burst into tears herself, but she didn’t let go, no matter how hard he fought.

There was only one thought in her small, frantic mind:

Don’t let him go in.

Don’t let him die.

The flames turned the two tangled, crying children into flickering silhouettes against the burning house.

His screams, the crash of collapsing beams, the relentless crackle of fire—all merged into a symphony of heartbreak.

“Mom! Dad!!!”

His final scream, raw and piercing, tore straight through the border of dream and reality.

“Ah!”

Gwyneth shot upright from the nightmare, heart pounding, drenched in cold sweat.

Through the haze, she thought she saw a tall figure sitting at the edge of her bed, outlined in the dim light.

She tried to sit up, to see who it was, but her limbs felt impossibly heavy, filled with lead. The moment she managed to lift herself even slightly, she collapsed back onto the pillow, dizzy and weak.