Revenge Wears My Ring novel Chapter 138

“Wait for me in Stephen’s office—I’ll check things out first.”

The heavy, ornate wooden doors closed silently behind her, shutting out the deafening noise from the world outside.

Inside the VIP suite on the top floor, a crystal chandelier cast a warm, suggestive glow over the room. The air was thick with the mingled scents of expensive cigars, perfume, and a barely perceptible undertone of desire.

Gwyneth’s arrival was like a fistful of snow plunging into a tepid bath.

Every eye in the room snapped toward her.

She wore a minimalist black velvet pantsuit, unadorned, with a deep V neckline that revealed an elegant collarbone and a sliver of pale skin. The cut accentuated her slender yet powerful shoulders and neck.

Her jet-black hair was swept carelessly back, a few stray strands framing her striking, cool features—sharp, almost regal. She didn’t make a show of herself; she simply walked in, calm and unhurried. Her heels tapped a soft, rhythmic beat on the plush carpet, each step as deliberate as a drumbeat.

Julian looked up instinctively, then, irritated, dropped his gaze again.

Queenie’s hand tightened around her wine glass, jealousy in her eyes so fierce it nearly took shape.

Desiree, curled at Zayden’s side, felt the subtle shift in his presence and dug her nails into her palm.

And Zayden.

He lounged in the wide leather sofa, cigar forgotten between his fingers, the ember burning, flaring and fading in the dim light.

As Gwyneth’s silhouette filled his vision, a flash of raw, unguarded admiration flickered across his face.

Bathed in golden light, she was all fine-boned coolness—straight brows, elegant nose, lips pale but perfectly shaped—and beneath the velvet, an untouchable aura that was almost ascetic, cold and magnetic all at once.

It was a beauty that didn’t beguile like Desiree’s carefully cultivated glamour. No, Gwyneth’s allure was fierce, self-contained, the kind of sharp-edged independence that could cut if you got too close.

The admiration vanished in less than a second, replaced by something darker—anger, and a glint of vindictive malice.

This woman.

Beneath that frosty, otherworldly face—what kind of venomous heart was she hiding? She’d dared to scheme against Desiree, orchestrating her humiliation in front of everyone.

Just moments ago, Desiree had wept in his arms, fragile and wounded, her tears like needles pricking his heart.

And now, Gwyneth sat before him, so calm, so… superior?

A surge of fury ignited in his chest, burning so hot his eyes flashed red.

He crushed his cigar into the crystal ashtray with such force it nearly splintered.

“Oh, come now, Mr. Ford, don’t be upset. Gwyneth’s not the same person anymore—naturally, she’s far too busy for the likes of us!”

She shot Gwyneth a look full of mock innocence.

Here we go again, Gwyneth thought. Queenie in full act.

Desiree, still pressed against Zayden, shrank further into his side like a frightened rabbit—an act Gwyneth had never seen from her before. But her eyes, as she watched Gwyneth approach, brimmed with malice and a flicker of secret satisfaction.

Gwyneth pretended not to notice Queenie’s barbs or Desiree’s theatrics.

She crossed to the single armchair reserved for her, settling in with effortless poise, legs crossed, the black velvet falling in crisp, elegant lines.

She lifted her gaze, meeting Zayden’s hostile, predatory stare. Her lips parted, voice cool and steady, cutting cleanly through the haze of music and murmurs:

“Not nearly as busy as you, Mr. Ford.”

Her eyes drifted—barely—over Desiree, who was still playing the victim by Zayden’s side. A barely-there smile flickered at the corner of Gwyneth’s mouth, sharp as a blade:

“First night back home, and you’re already throwing a welcome party in a dump like this. I have to say—your taste is truly… impressive.”