Revenge Wears My Ring novel Chapter 122

How could those two possibly end up sitting together?

Did Julian’s brother show up today, too?

Julian couldn’t explain it, but seeing the two of them side by side was like a splinter under his skin. The sight made him deeply uneasy.

Meanwhile, Desiree was practically burning with hatred for Gwyneth.

She fixed her gaze on their backs, her eyes overflowing with envy and spite.

Even if it was just a matter of random seating, that was more than enough to drive Desiree mad with jealousy.

A vicious plan was already taking shape in her mind.

With practiced grace, her manicured fingers lifted, and she beckoned to a nearby server weaving through the guests with a tray.

The server hurried over, bowing slightly. “Ma’am, is there anything I can get for you?”

Desiree’s face was a flawless mask, a lazy smile playing on her lips. She leaned in close, her voice a soft, icy whisper meant for the server’s ears alone.

Her eyes, sharp as daggers, swept over the flutes of sparkling wine on the tray, finally settling on a glass that was a shade darker than the rest—a special-looking fruit punch.

The server stiffened almost imperceptibly, a flicker of hesitation and alarm passing through his eyes.

But Desiree didn’t miss a beat. She added a few more words, her voice even lower and colder, laced with unmistakable threat and promise.

The color drained from the server’s face. Under Desiree’s chilling stare, he gave the faintest of nods, his eyes darting nervously away.

Queenie saw the whole exchange and instantly understood what Desiree was up to.

Her heart pounded with a toxic mix of excitement and malice, though she kept her expression perfectly composed. She could already picture Gwyneth humiliated, and her eyes gleamed with a sick anticipation.

Gwyneth,

You really are pathetic.

So many people can’t stand you.

Let’s see how you get out of this one.

Desiree’s lips curled into a cold, predatory smile. She picked up her own glass of red wine, swirling it gently, her gaze like a poisoned hook locked onto Gwyneth’s solitary figure in the VIP section.

The opportunity came sooner than expected.

Jeff and his wife’s golden wedding anniversary was drawing to a close. Under the glow of crystal chandeliers, glasses clinked and laughter filled the air, guests’ faces radiant with well-wishes.

Gwyneth stood by the champagne tower, tracing a fingertip along the slender stem of her glass, her eyes fixed on the sweaty, anxious server nearby.

“Gwyneth, we’re so glad you could celebrate our anniversary with us,” Jeff said as he approached, hand in hand with his wife, a gentle smile on his face. “We had this fresh orange juice made just for you—we know you don’t drink.”

Gwyneth accepted the glass, immediately noticing the server’s trembling fingers and the sheen of sweat on his brow.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Desiree and Queenie by a marble column, pretending to chat while their eyes kept darting her way.

Gwyneth let her body go limp, half-collapsing into Queenie’s arms, her eyes half-closed, covertly scanning the room through lowered lashes.

Desiree was striding toward them, face the perfect picture of concern.

“I’m sorry, Gwyneth must be exhausted from work, and she skipped dinner before having something cold,” Desiree apologized smoothly. “Queenie will take her to the lounge to rest for a bit. We wouldn’t want to trouble you with this.”

Jeff and his wife moved forward to help, but Desiree expertly blocked their way. “Please, there’s no need. Queenie can take care of her. As for Julian…” She glanced meaningfully at Julian, still deep in conversation across the room. “Let’s not bother him. It’s nothing serious.”

Jeff assumed Julian and Gwyneth were still together.

And as for Queenie, he’d heard Gwyneth mention her often—her younger sister.

So he handed Gwyneth over without a second thought.

Gwyneth felt Queenie half-drag, half-carry her toward the side door of the ballroom.

As they passed Desiree, she heard her mutter softly to Queenie, “Suite 1808. You know what to do.”

Gwyneth’s heart thudded in her chest.

1808?

Wasn’t that the hotel’s most luxurious honeymoon suite?

What exactly did they have waiting for her up there?