Revenge Wears My Ring novel Chapter 51

“Sorry! Wrong room!”

A waiter stumbled in, bumping “accidentally” into Gwyneth’s wrist with his elbow.

Her wine glass crashed to the floor, shattering as deep red liquid splattered across Marcus’s trousers.

“What the fu—” Marcus shot to his feet, seething, but his anger faltered when he saw the waiter bowing anxiously. The man’s sharp profile was almost knife-like.

Gwyneth narrowed her eyes.

Who was helping her? Was it really just a coincidence?

“Mr. Clayton.” Gwyneth suddenly rose, the toe of her stiletto shifting glass shards aside. “It was my fault—I lost my grip. Don’t take it out on the staff.”

She turned to the waiter. “You can go.”

The waiter nodded and hurried out.

Gwyneth picked up the crystal decanter, pouring fresh red wine that glimmered like blood beneath the chandelier.

“Mr. Clayton, it was rude of me earlier.” She slid a newly filled glass toward Marcus, tapping the base with her fingernail. “Please accept this as my apology.”

Marcus was still fuming, but Gwyneth’s demeanor caught him off guard; he accepted the glass, his pudgy fingers attempting to graze the back of her hand as he did.

Gwyneth maintained her polite smile, subtly slipping her hand away. Her eyes sparkled with ridicule as she pulled a gold-embossed room card from her clutch and slid it across the table.

“Room 1706. There are some ‘project details’ I’d like to discuss with you privately. Come up later.”

As she stood, the hem of her dress brushed against Marcus’s knee, leaving a faint, icy perfume behind.

Five minutes later, the same waiter discreetly handed Miranda another room card. “Mr. Clayton asked me to give you this.”

Miranda glanced down, chuckling to herself. Marcus, that disgusting pig, was as insatiable as ever—and so easy to manipulate. She’d been eyeing a new designer bag lately.

Joyful Club, Room 1706.

When Marcus opened the door, the room was pitch-black, illuminated only by a few flickering candles casting sultry shadows.

“Baby?” His voice trembled with anticipation.

On the bed, a woman lay with her back to him, long hair spilling over her shoulders, curves outlined in the dim light. Not stopping to think, Marcus yanked off his tie and pounced, too eager to notice she was a bit heavier than he remembered.

“Playing shy now? Didn’t you invite me up yourself?”

Miranda stayed silent, playing along with the game—whatever Marcus wanted, she could tolerate for her own gain.

In the darkness, their heavy breaths mingled, clothes strewn across the floor.

Suddenly—

Bang!

The door crashed open.

The blinding overhead lights snapped on. Mrs. Clayton stood in the doorway, flanked by two burly men, her expression stormy.

“Marcus! You filthy bastard!”

Marcus froze. He spun around, catching sight of the woman in bed—and instantly turned ashen.

“Miranda? What the hell—why is it you?!”

Miranda was just as stunned. She scrambled for the sheet to cover herself. “Mrs. Clayton, please, let me explain—”

But Mrs. Clayton was beyond reason. She grabbed a wine bottle from the table and hurled it at them. “Explain? Explain this!” She stormed forward, landing a slap on each of their faces. “Record everything!”

“You’re back?”

His low voice drifted down from the landing.

Gwyneth looked up. Bennett leaned against the banister, black robe loosely tied, collarbones sharply defined.

“Yeah. Something came up at work,” she replied automatically, then bit her lip.

Why was she offering explanations?

Bennett seemed to notice her unease, a fleeting smile tugging at his lips. “There’s warm milk in the kitchen. I figured you probably skipped dinner.”

His words caught her off guard.

How did he know?

Did she really look that pale and worn out?

Gwyneth cupped the glass between her hands, letting the warmth of the milk soothe her chilled stomach. The ache fading, she breathed out in relief, absently tracing the rim with her fingertip.

On the living room sofa, Bennett paged through a stack of documents.

“So, how’s it going at Locke Group?” he asked suddenly, eyes still on the contract.

Her glass tapped softly against the marble counter.

“It’s alright. I moved to the marketing department.” She dabbed the milk from her lip with a napkin.

“Marketing suits you.”

Hearing her answer, he smiled—a small, knowing curve, as if he’d seen it coming all along.