Revenge Wears My Ring novel Chapter 273

Gwyneth had barely stepped back into her office when her phone started ringing persistently, refusing to be ignored.

She glanced at the caller ID.

Lance.

A knowing smile tugged at her lips—just as she’d expected. She answered at her own unhurried pace, not giving him a chance to speak before she fired the first shot, her tone half-mocking, half-amused:

“Well, well, look who finally decided to show up—Lance, the busiest man in town. Couldn’t even last a day before calling me, huh?”

On the other end, Lance was clearly thrown off by her direct jab, fumbling for a response. But before he could get a word in, Gwyneth hung up on him, crisp and final.

Beeps filled Lance’s ear. He nearly hurled his phone across the room in frustration.

But he didn’t dare. Swallowing his pride, he called her again.

This time, the phone rang for ages before Gwyneth finally picked up, her voice all business, brisk and cold:

“Lance, I’m in the middle of work. I have to finalize the consultant contract with Breeze Studios. Whatever it is, it’ll have to wait.”

She was about to hang up again.

Panic surged through Lance. He abandoned all pretense of dignity, his voice practically a wail as he pleaded into the phone:

“Gwyneth! Don’t hang up! I’m sorry, okay? I’ll come clean—just, please, give me a chance. Forgive me this once?”

Listening to his pitiful begging, Gwyneth smirked inwardly.

So, the fox finally shows its tail.

She’d done some digging after their last conversation, and what she found had floored her.

Lance—the little weasel—had gone behind his brother Ziggy’s back, and hers, to secretly set up the country’s top tabloid operation.

Breeze Studios.

And their first major exposé of the year? Blowing the lid off her own alter ego—Nimbus.

Brilliant move, Lance.

Feigning complete ignorance, she drew out her words, layering her tone with confusion and a bit of static for effect:

“What? Sorry, you’re breaking up. I can’t quite hear you…”

Lance, convinced she truly hadn’t heard, took a deep breath and blurted it all out, voice trembling:

“Gwyneth, listen! It’s me—I’m the owner behind Breeze Studios! The one that leaked your story? That was my team! I swear, I didn’t even check what my reporters had gotten before I rushed to put out the exclusive. If I’d known it was you—no way, not in a million years. Gwyneth, I’m begging you…”

Gwyneth dragged out her response, still “struggling” with the bad connection:

“Alright. Got it.”

He straightened his rumpled shirt, squared his shoulders, and marched toward the reception room like a soldier heading for the gallows.

No matter what waited for him—fire or sword—he’d face it.

With every step to the door, Lance felt like he was on his way to an execution. He paused, inhaled deeply, and opened the door.

Inside, a tall, impeccably dressed man stood with his back to the room, gazing down at the busy street from the enormous windows.

That silhouette, that aura—it sent a chill straight down Lance’s spine. His blood seemed to freeze.

At the sound of the door, the man turned slowly.

Ziggy’s eyes landed on his petrified younger brother, his face unreadable, as if none of this surprised him in the slightest.

His voice was calm, almost emotionless, but every word was a needle in Lance’s heart:

“So. Should I call you Mr. Dalton now?”

Ziggy’s gaze swept across the plush reception room—home turf of the “Breeze Studios boss”—and his tone was cool as ice:

“Quite the operation you’ve built here.”