Revenge Wears My Ring novel Chapter 123

As she reached the corner of the hallway, Gwyneth summoned the last bit of willpower she had left, pressing the micro-tracker hidden beneath her fingernail into the ornate crevice of the wall sconce.

This was her final insurance policy. If Bennett came looking for her, at least he’d have a starting point—a clue to follow.

Somewhere along the way, she realized, she’d started to trust Bennett. At least, in name, they were husband and wife.

The elevator doors slid shut behind her, sealing away the noise and clamor of the party downstairs.

In the enclosed space, Queenie’s breathing grew noticeably rapid, and the grip on Gwyneth’s arm loosened just a little.

“Finally…” Queenie’s voice dropped its pretense, malice sharpening her words as she looked down at the “unconscious” Gwyneth and let out a cold laugh.

“Looks like the untouchable Ms. Fletcher isn’t so invincible after all.”

Gwyneth felt Queenie’s fingers dig spitefully into her cheek. “After tonight, let’s see how high and mighty you act in front of Julian and Bennett.”

With a soft ding, the elevator stopped at the eighteenth floor.

Queenie dragged her roughly down the hallway to the suite at the far end. She swiped the keycard and, without a hint of gentleness, tossed her onto the enormous bed at the center of the room.

Peeking through barely opened lashes, Gwyneth saw Desiree already there, standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, speaking rapidly on her phone.

The honeymoon suite’s luxurious decor felt even more suggestive under the dim, golden lights. On the nightstand, two glasses and several bottles of wine sat waiting. One glass had a suspicious trace of white powder clinging to its rim.

“Security cameras are handled? And the guy?” Desiree’s voice was brisk. “Perfect.” She hung up and turned toward Gwyneth, eyes glittering with venom.

“Julian’s looking for me. I’ll head down; meet me when you’re done.” Queenie, frowning at the missed calls on her phone, was already halfway out the door.

As soon as she left, Desiree crushed her cigarette in the ashtray and strode to the minibar. From her purse, she produced a small vial of clear liquid, pouring it into a champagne flute.

The liquid vanished instantly as she swirled the glass.

“Let’s spice things up,” Desiree murmured, a cruel smile curling her lips as she twirled the glass between her fingers. “Let’s make sure she really enjoys herself tonight.”

But as she turned toward the bed, a pale hand shot out, locking around her wrist.

“Why don’t you have a taste yourself, Ms. Sutton?”

The Gwyneth who should have been unconscious was now standing in front of her, eyes razor-sharp and utterly lucid.

Desiree didn’t even have time to scream. Gwyneth twisted her arm, and with practiced precision, pressed the icy rim of the glass against Desiree’s lips.

“You—mmph!”

The adrenaline that had fueled her reversal against Desiree faded away, and the remnants of the drug she’d been given began creeping through her veins—a thousand invisible tendrils tightening around her nerves.

The edges of her vision blurred; the chandelier’s light fractured into painful halos.

She pressed a hand to the cool wall, willing herself to hurry, to get away from this revolting place.

The corner was just ahead.

But as she rounded it, a wave of dizziness crashed over her, her legs turning to jelly as she fell helplessly to one side.

This is it!

But the hard, humiliating crash never came.

A strong, warm hand caught her arm just in time. The other arm slipped firmly around her waist, steadying her, holding her upright as she started to collapse.

A crisp, steady scent—cool and masculine—wrapped around her, banishing the cloying perfume and sickly sweetness that lingered in the corridor.

Gwyneth’s heart stuttered. Instinctively, she tried to pull away, but her weakened body refused to cooperate.