Revenge Wears My Ring novel Chapter 142

He deliberately emphasized the words “Ms. Fletcher,” his tone dripping with condescension and mockery.

When he uttered “late”—the word lingered, charged with meaning. It wasn’t just about punctuality; it was a warning. Next time, she wouldn’t have anywhere to run—and no one would just “happen” to interrupt.

Faced with this naked threat, Gwyneth’s expression didn’t so much as flicker.

She even let her lips curl into a flawless, perfectly measured smile.

It hung on her porcelain features, but her eyes remained as calm and unfathomable as a midnight lake—utterly devoid of warmth or fear.

She stood there in silence, meeting Zayden’s icy stare and Julian’s probing gaze, like a night-blooming flower quietly opening at the edge of a storm.

“Thank you for your… concern, Mr. Ford,” she replied, her voice clear and unhurried. “Safe travels. I won’t see you out.”

Zayden let out a cold snort, then disappeared around the corner, Desiree still in his arms.

Only Gwyneth, Julian, and Queenie remained in the room, along with the tension and the charged silence that lingered in the air like the fading trace of gunpowder.

Gwyneth’s smile stayed perfectly in place, but her gaze drifted past Julian, following the direction where Bennett had just vanished. Deep in her eyes, behind that serene facade, nothing could be read.

Zayden, holding Desiree, vanished into the shadows at the end of the corridor. His heavy footsteps receded, each one echoing like a fading drumbeat in the thick, unmoving air.

Slowly, Gwyneth’s perfect, icy smile faded as well, slipping away like the tide to reveal the hard stone beneath.

She turned, her eyes sweeping over Queenie, who stood beside Julian with a conflicted expression, barely daring to breathe. That calm, steady gaze made Queenie instinctively shrink back half a step, avoiding her line of sight.

At last, Gwyneth’s attention settled on Julian.

He hadn’t moved, still standing there with his gold-rimmed glasses and those deep, watchful eyes. Yet the effortless control he always wore seemed to have developed a hairline fracture, thanks to Zayden’s unpredictable outburst.

Julian hadn’t expected Zayden to lose control like that—so blunt, so ruthless.

On his own turf, right in front of him, Zayden had openly gone after Gwyneth. The blatant disrespect was like a fine splinter, pricking Julian’s carefully maintained composure.

Gwyneth drew a quiet breath. When she spoke again, her voice was as clear as ever, but now—just barely—there was the faintest tremor, something subtle and restrained: a note of hurt and confusion that was all the more striking for its restraint.

She wasn’t falling apart. It was just a tiny hairline crack in fine china—almost invisible, but impossible to ignore, and somehow more arresting than an open display of weakness.

“So,”

He adjusted his glasses, trying to recover his usual poise, but faced with Gwyneth’s wounded and questioning eyes, his well-rehearsed composure and polished words felt strangely sluggish for the first time.

“Gwyneth,” Julian said, his voice dropping lower, tinged with a roughness that wasn’t usually there, “Things… got a little out of hand.”

He sidestepped the question of whether he’d set her up for Zayden and Desiree, deftly shifting the blame to “unforeseen circumstances.”

“Zayden…” Julian chose his words with care, searching for a way to distance himself from the mess while trying to soothe her. “He cares for Desiree more than I’d anticipated. His behavior was… out of line.”

He paused, meeting Gwyneth’s gaze, his eyes dark and intent.

“I didn’t mean for you to be caught in the crossfire. That was never my intention.”

But after what she’d just endured, this belated, calculated apology rang hollow and cold.

Gwyneth listened in silence. The trace of hurt lingered on her face, but her eyes were icy and unreadable.

She turned her head to look at Queenie, who seemed to be standing under Julian’s protection, her expression guarded.

“If it were Queenie in my place, would you have done the same?”