Revenge Wears My Ring novel Chapter 65

On the other end of the line, Ziggy let out a low chuckle, a sound brimming with understanding and the thrill of meeting a worthy adversary. “Send me the address. I’ll see you downstairs in five.”

Gwyneth hung up, pausing for a final glance at Bennett’s hospital room.

That door shut him away from the world—and shut away any trace of her own vulnerability.

She turned on her heel. The sharp staccato of her heels echoed against the cold, gleaming floor as she strode toward the elevator, every step crisp and resolute.

Just as her elevator doors were closing, another private lift chimed and slid open on the same floor.

The doors parted, and Desiree burst out—a vision of vengeful fury, her eyes red and swollen, makeup smeared, every inch of her radiating toxic resentment. She charged down the corridor with a single-minded purpose: Bennett’s room.

Desiree’s eyes blazed with wild hatred. She needed to see Bennett for herself, to make sure he was safe, and then unleash every curse she could muster upon Gwyneth, the woman who had driven him to this point.

Meanwhile, Gwyneth’s elevator carried her downward, her silhouette icy and composed as she descended.

One woman, burning with searing hatred, raced upward.

Another, cloaked in bone-deep cold, sank steadily down.

Desiree stormed into the hospital room, only to find it empty—except for the stone-faced security guards and Hugo, who regarded her with professional indifference.

Outside, Gwyneth stepped into the night. The chilly air swept across her expressionless face.

A sleek black SUV slid silently to a halt before her, like a predator emerging from the shadows. The window rolled down, revealing Ziggy—handsome, refined, but with a razor-sharp smile playing on his lips.

Gwyneth opened the door and climbed in.

“Where to?” Ziggy asked.

She glanced at the file Elodie had just sent to her phone, her voice as cold and crisp as frost in the enclosed car.

“Astral Media. It’s time they paid what they owe.”

The engine growled, and the black vehicle shot off into the night like an arrow loosed for revenge.

—

At Astral Media’s headquarters, Gwyneth strode into the marble lobby, her heels striking the floor with a cadence that echoed through the silence—each step the drumbeat of judgment.

Ziggy followed half a step behind, impeccably dressed in a tailored black suit. Behind his gold-rimmed glasses, his gaze was as sharp as a scalpel. In one hand, he carried an ordinary-looking black briefcase that somehow filled the air with dread.

One of them even dropped his gaze, his fingers curling unconsciously.

In Ziggy’s presence, they felt stripped bare—like defendants awaiting judgment, every protest futile.

That this fearsome figure had chosen to stand at Gwyneth’s side only made things worse.

“Ziggy Dalton!” One lawyer’s voice trembled.

“Mr. Wallace, ladies and gentlemen,” Ziggy began, his tone calm and measured, yet carrying an undeniable force. “Time is precious. Regarding the malicious defamation, commercial slander, and incitement to violence orchestrated by your company against my client, Ms. Gwyneth, her firm Locke Group, and Mr. Shepard, I trust that, given the evidence now in the hands of the authorities, any attempt at denial would be utterly pointless.”

He paused, his gaze sweeping the table like a searchlight made of ice.

“My client now holds more than enough proof. So, you have a choice: come clean while you still have some dignity and hope for leniency, or dig in your heels and watch as my client and Mr. Shepard take you—and Astral Media—down to total bankruptcy and see every responsible party behind bars for life.”

“We’ll confess! We confess!” Mr. Wallace all but screamed, his composure in tatters under Ziggy’s cool, devastating opening.

“It was us—we planned it all. We just wanted to stir up publicity, undermine Yardley. The online trolls, the agitators at the scene—all arranged by us. We only wanted to sabotage the deal, we never meant for anyone to get hurt, never wanted it to go this far, let alone for anyone to die—truly, we didn’t!”

He babbled incoherently, desperate to distance himself from the disaster he’d helped create.