Revenge Wears My Ring novel Chapter 69

Warm water slid down his raw, burning throat, offering a fleeting sense of relief.

And then—

The flat-screen TV mounted on the hospital room wall, which had been silently playing a nature documentary, suddenly switched scenes.

A glaring red “Breaking News” banner flashed across the screen as a stern-faced newscaster delivered an urgent report at breakneck speed:

“...Latest update! Police have launched a major operation, successfully cracking a high-profile case of corporate defamation and incitement. Senior executives and planners from Astral Media have been taken into custody. Sources say the group used forged evidence, hired online trolls, and manipulated the public to maliciously slander competitors and artist Yardley, severely disrupting market order and causing widespread social repercussions. The investigation is ongoing...”

Images flickered by: Astral Media’s headquarters surrounded by police cars, blurry footage of employees being led away, and a clipped statement from a police spokesperson.

The language was uncompromising, the verdict clear: Astral Media’s crimes were nailed to the wall for all to see.

But there was not a single mention of the chaos at the contract signing, nothing about the stabbing, and certainly no word of Bennett’s injuries.

It was as if that harrowing attack—the blood, the terror—had never happened at all.

Gwyneth froze, the cup of water suspended midair.

Her gaze shifted from Bennett’s lips to the television, her eyes instantly sharpening, turning cold as steel.

Astral Media taken down?

This fast?

And the news was already out?

Yet every detail about him—erased, as if it never existed.

Who had the kind of power to completely bury news of the Boyd Group’s leader being gravely injured, and do it so swiftly, so flawlessly?

Bennett looked up as well.

She lingered on “champion of justice,” the words heavy with irony and unspoken understanding.

Bennett studied her in silence. For a split second, a faint trace of amusement seemed to flicker in his eyes—gone so quickly it could have been a trick of the light.

He didn’t push, didn’t call her bluff. He simply gave a barely perceptible nod, as if accepting her answer.

Then he closed his eyes and lay back, likely still dulled by the anesthesia.

A strange silence settled over the room.

Outside, dusk had crept in unnoticed. A storm of conflicted emotions churned in Gwyneth’s chest—guilt over his injuries, lingering fear from the day’s ordeal, and something else she couldn’t name: a soft, aching vulnerability that grew stronger as she watched him lying there, so fragile.

She took in the exhaustion etched beneath his closed eyelids, the harsh, elegant line of his cheek made sharper by blood loss, the hand swathed in thick bandages—maybe scarred for life. In that moment, all her strategies, contracts, and carefully drawn boundaries blurred into insignificance.

Gwyneth drew a deep breath, the air tinged with antiseptic and the weight of resolve.