Revenge Wears My Ring novel Chapter 88

The conference room door burst open. Four uniformed security guards, all broad-shouldered and stone-faced, marched in with determined strides. In an instant, they positioned themselves like a wall of iron, cutting Yohan off from Gwyneth, their cold eyes fixed squarely on their target.

“Mr. Yohan.” The security chief’s voice was clipped and icy. “You’ll need to come with us.”

“No! I’m not going anywhere! Let go of me! Gwyneth! You’re abusing your authority! You—” Yohan’s furious shouts quickly devolved into desperate, panicked thrashing as the guards seized him.

Meanwhile, Madeline had collapsed onto the carpet, her legs unable to support her. Sobbing helplessly, she fumbled with her phone, trying to call Winston, but the line wouldn’t connect.

The deputy director, sprawled on the floor, stared ahead with a gray, vacant expression, all resistance drained from him.

Gwyneth stood at the head of the table, watching coolly as the guards dragged a pale, howling Yohan away as if he were nothing more than a sack of garbage. She didn’t flinch as the shaken Madeline and the rest of the cowering executives were led out one by one.

Soon, the room was empty, save for her.

She slowly lowered herself into her chair, her gaze lingering on the scattered documents and an overturned chair lying askew on the floor.

The air still throbbed with the echoes of Yohan’s screams and the lingering scent of fear.

————

On the top floor of Fletcher Group’s headquarters, the lights in the new CEO’s office shone late into the evening.

Gwyneth closed the last urgent document, her fingertip tapping lightly against the polished desk.

Outside, neon lights had begun to flicker across the city, their glow reflected in her calm, unblinking eyes.

Winston, it’s your move.

She could picture her uncle now—skulking in some corner, frantic as an animal trapped in a cage, completely rattled by the news that Yohan and Madeline had both been “escorted away.” He was probably panicking, ready to come crawling to her—maybe to beg, maybe to threaten, maybe to try and cash in on whatever scraps of family loyalty he thought still remained between them.

Let him stew.

Let him taste real fear for once.

She opened the door to the VIP suite. Only a single lamp was on inside, bathing the room in a gentle, amber light.

Bennett was propped up in bed, a stack of paperwork resting across his lap. The warm glow traced the angle of his pale profile, but nothing could diminish the quiet authority that radiated from him.

He seemed to have known she’d come. As soon as the door opened, he lifted his eyes from his papers and looked straight at her—his gaze steady, deep, and quietly appraising, as though he could see straight through her well-kept composure to the exhaustion and storm raging beneath.

“You’re here?” His voice was deep, unreadable.

Gwyneth closed the door behind her, not answering right away. She walked to the bedside, picked up the carafe from the nightstand, checked the temperature, then poured a glass of warm water and set it within his reach.

“Yeah.” Her reply was low, her voice roughened by a long, taxing day, yet gentler than it ever was at the office.

Her eyes flickered down to his hand, still wrapped in bandages. Her brow furrowed, just barely.

“How are you feeling? Does it still hurt?”