Revenge Wears My Ring novel Chapter 166

Downstairs, the office was a world apart from the city’s relentless noise, its heavy curtains sealing off any trace of the bustle outside.

Soft lamplight replaced the blinding crystal chandeliers of the bidding hall, casting a warm, golden halo across the polished walnut desk.

Bennett sat behind that broad desk, head slightly bowed, his attention wholly absorbed in the paperwork before him.

His fountain pen whispered over the pages, a faint, steady rasp.

Gone was the imperious air he’d carried in the meeting room, the sense that he looked down on the world itself. Yet even stripped of that arrogance, he radiated a cold, forbidding presence—like a blade sheathed but no less lethal, its menace only sharpened by restraint.

On the sofa opposite, Gwyneth found herself unable to look away from him.

She watched the calm profile of his face, the elegant lines of his hand as he gripped the pen, the effortless sweep of his signature—each movement composed and precise.

The sight of him working, so focused and serene, was a jarring contrast to the man she’d seen in the bidding hall: a king who could, with a casual joke, send Julian spiraling into ruin.

The gap between those two Bennetts left her unsettled and, inexplicably, a little breathless.

How many faces did he wear?

Which one was real?

The image of that mysterious man in dark glasses, raising the stakes with surgical precision, replayed in her mind again and again. Doubts tangled in her thoughts, growing wild as vines.

At last, unable to hold back, she broke the silence with a clear, ringing voice:

“Was that your doing?”

Her question was simple—no names, no details. But she knew he’d understand.

Bennett’s pen stilled for the briefest moment.

He didn’t look up right away. Instead, he capped the pen with deliberate care, every movement controlled and unhurried.

Only then did he raise his eyes, those dark, fathomless pools settling on Gwyneth’s face—steady, unreadable, as cold as a winter lake.

The lamplight caught in his gaze, but it reflected no warmth, only an endless, silent depth.

“Yes.”

He answered without the slightest hesitation, as if he were agreeing to something as ordinary as the weather.

One word—light as air, yet it crashed into Gwyneth’s heart like a stone, sending shockwaves through her.

Of course it was him.

The man in sunglasses, the wild escalation of bids—every second of that spectacle had been orchestrated by him.

His goal had been simple: to force Julian to pay a price far beyond his limits.

Gwyneth’s heart pounded against her ribs. Staring at Bennett’s impassive face, her questions only multiplied: Why?

Julian was his brother, wasn’t he?

Her thoughts flickered to Yale, to the Locke family—a household that looked harmonious on the surface but seethed with hidden currents beneath.

Was this about the Locke Group’s inheritance? Was Bennett willing to destroy his own brother just to win?

He had manipulated everyone like chess pieces. The realization sent a chill down her spine.

Julian and his father, Yale, sat facing each other across a wide rosewood desk, neither speaking, the silence between them almost suffocating.

Julian’s fingers drummed unconsciously on the open financial report, the dense columns of numbers almost seeming to dance before his eyes.

He was the first to break the silence, his voice low but unable to hide a note of certainty:

“Dad, I double-checked everything just now. Cloudview Resort—conservative estimates put our initial profit at over four billion. If the market responds like we expect, hitting five billion won’t be a problem.”

The staggering number dropped into the room like a stone into a deep well, but Yale’s face didn’t even ripple.

He acted as if he hadn’t heard, his eyes lowered, slowly tracing the rim of his fine porcelain teacup with his thumb.

The cup was cool, the tea only faintly warm.

Time dripped by, thick and anxious.

Finally, Yale lifted his head, but his gaze didn’t meet Julian’s. Instead, he looked past him into a shadowed corner of the study, where an old family photo stood on a shelf.

When he spoke, his voice was rough, as if sanded down by effort, but his question was as sharp and cold as a knife, slicing through Julian’s dreams of profit:

“Bennett hasn’t made any move at all?”

The excitement drained from Julian’s face, replaced by a grave tension.

Right. That damn Bennett had waited, refusing to bid—just watching, waiting for him to make a move.

He was starting to wonder if the man in sunglasses had been Bennett’s doing all along.

Was Bennett already planning his own betrayal?