Revenge Wears My Ring novel Chapter 261

“The Bulgari necklace…”

Julian repeated the words under his breath, as if caught in a spell.

Memories blurred by alcohol and Queenie’s manipulations suddenly snapped into painful clarity.

Of course!

At that charity auction, he really had won that emerald necklace—and he really had planned to give it to Gwyneth for her birthday. That was the original plan.

But Queenie, somehow, had found out. She’d clung to him for days, weeping and whining, insisting she wanted it too. She said Gwyneth already had everything—why should she get all the best things?

In the end, Julian had caved, his judgment clouded by her tears and his own weakness. He’d handed Queenie the emerald necklace, and then, in a last-minute scramble, picked up a Bulgari piece from the boutique to give to Gwyneth instead.

It was still expensive—well into the five figures—but nothing compared to the value of the emerald.

His friends’ words echoed in his mind like a rusty, dull blade, scraping through the chaos, stirring up fragments of memories he’d tried hard to ignore.

He remembered the way Gwyneth used to worry about him after nights out—how she’d always leave warm water and antacids by the bed, her eyes full of concern.

How, no matter how late he got home, a lamp was always burning in the window, waiting for him.

The small, gentle ways she’d looked after him for five whole years—quiet, steady acts of care that had seeped into every corner of his life.

Gwyneth, who had stayed by his side, asking for nothing, never looking for reasons, never calculating gain or loss—just wanting to be with him.

What had he done with those years?

The images crashed over him, sharper and more relentless than ever.

And suddenly, with a clarity that left him reeling, Julian realized: the woman who had once made him the center of her world was slipping away—disappearing from his life in a way he was utterly powerless to stop.

And her absence didn’t bring the relief or freedom he’d once expected. It felt hollow, wrong—a gaping emptiness he couldn’t get used to. There was even a trace of panic—something he didn’t want to admit, not even to himself.

Five years.

He really had… wasted so much of her time.

And he’d grown so used to having her.

A sharp, twisting pain shot through his stomach—an old problem, no doubt triggered by the booze and his spiraling emotions.

He curled in on himself, cold sweat breaking out along his hairline.

In the past, at moments like this, there’d always be a warm hand offering water and medicine—a gentle, exasperated voice chiding him, full of worry and love.

Before he realized what he was doing, Julian pulled out his phone. His hands trembled as he unlocked it and pulled up his contacts.

There it was—that familiar name.

Gwyneth, quiet and unassuming, sitting right there in the list.

His finger hovered over the call button for what felt like ages, the glow of the screen reflecting his struggle and pain.

What was he going to say?

Apologize?

Beg for forgiveness?

Queenie clawed her way out of a pounding headache and a wave of nausea.

She opened her eyes to an unfamiliar, lavish ceiling. The air was thick with the stench of stale cigarettes, booze, and the greasy, sour smell of an unfamiliar man.

She shot upright, the velvet blanket slipping away and sending a chill through her. Only then did she see the man asleep beside her.

Winston.

Last night’s memories crashed into her, filthy and jagged.

She remembered picking up that mysterious phone call, and climbing into a black sedan.

When the window rolled down, she’d been shocked to see it was Winston behind the wheel.

And even more surprising, Desiree had been in the back seat.

Queenie had no idea how these two, who had nothing to do with each other, had gotten tangled up together.

They ended up at an exclusive private club, tucked away from prying eyes.

Desiree had been unusually warm, clinging to her, pouring drink after drink. Winston joined in, the two of them egging each other on, talking endlessly about how to ruin Gwyneth, how to drag her down, how to take back everything they thought was theirs.

Queenie, simmering with anger at Julian and seething with hatred for Gwyneth, drank glass after glass.

All the while, she kept calling Julian, desperate for the smallest scrap of comfort—even just a word, a question. But all she got was cold rejection, call after call going unanswered, until his phone finally switched off.

The more she was ignored, the more she drank. The more she hated.