Revenge Wears My Ring novel Chapter 127

Queenie jolted at his outburst, her eyes brimming with a flash of hurt—quickly replaced by a twisted sense of satisfaction and the giddy thrill of seeing her grand plan unfold.

It had worked.

It really had.

Desiree hadn’t come out of the suite yet, but the chaos from inside couldn’t be faked.

Gwyneth, you’re finished.

Queenie’s face transformed instantly into a mask of deep concern, lips trembling as if on the verge of tears. Her voice quivered with forced urgency and worry:

“Julian, everyone, come with me! Oh God, something must’ve happened to Gwyneth—please let her be all right!” She stumbled dramatically toward the elevator, choking back fake sobs, pausing just long enough to cast a soulful, “sisterly” glance over her shoulder at the crowd—stoking their sympathy and righteous indignation to a fever pitch.

The crowd surged forward like sharks scenting blood, pouring into the elevator, others flooding the stairs.

Contemptuous whispers buzzed through the air, as if Gwyneth’s “crime” was already proven.

Meanwhile, the supposed subject of this scandal—Gwyneth herself—was already in the lobby, Bennett supporting her arm.

Bennett could feel the faint tension in her posture. He leaned in, voice pitched low for her alone. “Want to watch the show?”

Gwyneth looked up, ice and steel melting into sharp clarity in her eyes, with a trace of cold amusement. “Of course. Let’s see how their little stage crumbles.”

They trailed the crowd at a leisurely pace, spectators at their own story.

“Never thought Ms. Fletcher was that kind of woman.”

“All that prim and proper nonsense—she’s rotten to the core!”

“Poor Mr. Locke…”

“Queenie’s too kind, still worrying about her after all this.”

Outside Suite 1808, the crowd choked the corridor, wall to wall.

Beyond the heavy, high-security door, sounds from within were unmistakable—enough to make anyone’s cheeks burn.

A man’s ragged, animalistic panting. A woman’s shrill, uninhibited moans, laced with abandon. The bedframe battered rhythmically against the wall…

Every lewd, sordid noise seemed to crash into the crowd’s ears, unfiltered.

“My God! Have they no shame?”

“That’s Gwyneth in there? Disgusting!”

“The Fletcher family’s little princess? Please! She’s nothing but a tramp!”

“Jeff’s name is ruined because of her!”

“Mr. Locke, a woman like that isn’t worth it!”

All the clamor and derision collapsed into a choking, absolute silence.

A beat later, came the collective gasp.

That woman… wasn’t Gwyneth.

It was Desiree.

Desiree—the one who’d always held herself above everyone, the self-styled socialite, Sutton Group’s precious darling, who’d made no secret of her obsession with Bennett.

A bloodcurdling scream shattered the stillness, Desiree’s voice raw with terror and humiliation.

The shock of exposure, the overwhelming shame, and the crash from drugged delirium to harsh reality hit her all at once.

She exploded with wild strength, shoving the revolting man off her, grabbing for the scattered pillows and sheets, desperately trying to cover her nakedness.

“Get out! You disgusting pig! Get out!” Desiree’s voice rose to an unhinged pitch, her shame and rage making her words shrill and piercing. She swung, landing a stinging slap across the man’s bewildered face.

SMACK!

The sound rang out in the stunned silence of the hallway.

The man staggered, finally registering the full horror of the scene. He scrambled for his pants, not bothering to pull them on, and, pale with panic, shoved past the gaping crowd, fleeing in utter disgrace.