Revenge Wears My Ring novel Chapter 156

She moved so fast it was all a blur—one desperate motion after another.

It wasn’t until her back pressed against the cold bathroom door and she heard the frantic thudding of her own heart echoing in the tiny space that Gwyneth finally realized what she had just done.

Had she really… hidden in the bathroom?

She pressed her burning cheeks with both hands, barely able to believe it.

God, Gwyneth, what the hell are you doing?!

Could she have made it any more obvious something was going on?

She felt like a mistress caught by the wife, scrambling to hide in a panic.

What was with this ridiculous “affair” vibe?

Mortified, Gwyneth was ready to dig herself a hole and disappear when a saccharine, deliberately soft voice floated in from the other side of the door—Queenie’s, as cloying as syrup:

“Mr. Boyd? Are you in there? It’s Queenie. May I come in?”

Her tone was full of calculated sweetness and eager anticipation.

Queenie? What is she doing here?

Out in the office, Bennett glanced at his now empty arms, then at the tightly closed bathroom door. A flicker of surprise crossed his handsome face before it melted into deep resignation—and something softer, almost indulgent.

He raised a hand, long fingers pressing firmly against his throbbing brow. This little turtle—always ducking into her shell at the slightest hint of trouble—was going to be the death of him.

He didn’t even bother to look up. Facing the door, his voice slipped back into its usual icy calm, utterly unreadable:

“Come in.”

The door eased open.

Queenie swept in, trailing a heavy cloud of perfume, every step a calculated sway.

She was clearly dressed to kill: a skintight, ultra-short pencil skirt that hugged every curve; flawless makeup freshly applied, lashes perfectly fanned, lips a bold, glossy red.

She wore what she thought was her most enchanting smile, her eyes shining with ambition and certainty.

Her gaze zeroed in on the man behind the desk—the man who looked like he belonged on a magazine cover.

Sunlight poured through the immense floor-to-ceiling windows, gilding his sharp features in gold.

He lounged there, casual but exuding a commanding presence, as if even the sunlight itself deferred to him.

It was the kind of scene that could make any woman’s heart race.

Queenie’s own heart skipped a beat, her eyes turning dreamy and determined.

But in the next instant, her excitement plummeted.

He didn’t even look up.

His indifference stung, but Queenie had come this far—no turning back now.

She drew a deep breath, pasting on her sweetest smile, her tone intentionally soft and suggestive, barely hiding the implication:

“Well, Mr. Boyd,” she murmured, inching a little closer to show off her figure, “regarding the Harvest Group’s Cloudview Resort project, I have some rather unique and important ideas I’d love to share.”

She paused, waiting for a reaction.

When he showed no emotion—just the faintest pause in his rhythmic tapping on the desk—Queenie’s hope flared. She dangled her bait:

“If you’re free this evening…” Her voice dropped lower, dripping with innuendo. “I’d love to take you out to dinner. We could talk everything through in detail—I guarantee you’ll be… very satisfied.”

She let those last words linger, her gaze bold and loaded with meaning as she looked at Bennett.

Inside the bathroom, Gwyneth’s ear was practically pressed to the door, catching every word crystal clear.

When Queenie purred, “I guarantee you’ll be satisfied,” Gwyneth’s eyes went wide as saucers, her mouth falling open in a silent, “Oh my god!”

Holy crap, Queenie, you’ve got some nerve!

Aren’t you afraid Julian will find out?

And here I am—the actual, legal wife—squatting behind a bathroom door, eavesdropping on the whole thing.

Honestly, this was beyond dramatic. Even soap operas wouldn’t dare go this far.