Revenge Wears My Ring novel Chapter 64

Desiree stood amid the wreckage, her chest heaving. The carefully made-up face—usually so composed, so smug in its sense of control—was now twisted by raw jealousy and heartbreak.

“Why?!”

Her scream tore through the room, wild and desperate, like a wounded animal lashing out in pain and venom.

Why did you save her?

That conniving witch!

What makes her worthy of your protection?

Why wasn’t it her who got hurt?

Tears streamed down her cheeks, smudging her mascara into ugly black streaks.

Just moments ago, the room had been buzzing with celebration. Now, it was in shambles. Queenie had already left after taking a phone call, and Desiree seemed on the verge of madness.

The agony in her heart, mingled with a consuming hatred for Gwyneth, burned through her like poison fire.

She wanted nothing more than to storm up to Gwyneth and curse her with every foul word she knew, to tear her apart with the cruelest means she could imagine.

It was all her fault.

She ruined Bennett.

Without a second thought, Desiree grabbed her phone and called the driver.

“Take me to the hospital. Now!”

———

At the hospital.

Finally—

The “Operation in Progress” sign flickered off.

The doors swung open and the surgeon stepped out, surgical scrubs still on, his face weary but finally at ease. “The operation was a success. The wound was cleaned thoroughly, and the severed tendons and damaged nerves have been carefully repaired. We were lucky—the blade missed the main artery by just a few millimeters.”

Hugo caught the movement and turned to her, giving her a gentle nod. “Mrs. Boyd, we’ve got this. You should go home and get some rest.”

Gwyneth froze in place.

That’s right—she still had things to do.

She turned and slowly walked down the corridor, her body trembling, but her eyes burning with resolve.

Pulling out her phone, the screen’s glow lit the sharp lines of her frozen expression.

Deep in her gaze, all the panic, vulnerability, and confusion had been replaced by something cold and deadly—an icy determination that cut deeper than any blade.

The guilt and heavy responsibility hadn’t faded, but now they were wrapped in something fiercer, something resolute.

She dialed a number. It rang only once before it was answered.

“Ziggy.” Gwyneth’s voice came through the phone—calm, cold, utterly steady, yet sharp as the edge of a drawn knife.

“Are you awake? Come with me. It’s time we settled the score.”