Revenge Wears My Ring novel Chapter 93

Bennett tilted his head, stretching his neck, then suddenly turned to look at him, his gaze deep and unreadable.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of—” He drew out the words, his tone loaded with meaning.

“Myself.”

With that, he didn’t spare Julian another look.

A sense of unease settled in Julian’s chest, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on why.

If Gwyneth wasn’t even here, what was she doing at the hospital?

——————

The first floor lobby of Harmony Hospital was thick with the sterile tang of disinfectant, softened only slightly by the faint scent of fresh flowers.

Gwyneth had just stepped out of the internal medicine clinic, a clear plastic bag with a few boxes of cold medicine swinging from her hand. Her fingertips still tingled with the lingering chill from the exam room doorknob.

She walked at an unhurried pace, her expression weary. The fatigue from cleaning up the latest corporate disaster lingered between her brows, mixed with the irritation of being knocked down by a sudden, stubborn cold.

Hugo had gone to pick up her vitamins from the pharmacy, leaving her alone to cross the lobby, her mind wandering:

How did Bennett clock her cold so quickly, insisting Hugo accompany her downstairs to get her medicine?

Her thoughts drifted to that time her fever had spiked to nearly 104, and yet Julian had left her behind, insisting she looked fine and piling more work on her plate—while he slipped away to meet with Queenie.

Of course, she’d only learned the truth later. She shook her head at the memory.

Out of the corner of her eye, she suddenly caught sight of three figures emerging from the private elevator: Julian, Queenie, and Winston—who looked a mess, face scratched and clothes rumpled.

Just her luck.

Persistent as a bad penny.

Gwyneth smirked coldly to herself.

She didn’t break stride or even bother to avoid them. She merely shifted her shoulder, as if casually adjusting her direction, continuing through the lobby.

But Julian’s gaze was sharp as a hawk’s. He spotted her in an instant.

The sight of Gwyneth’s medicine bag and the pale, drawn look in her face popped the balloon of tension that had been swelling inside him all morning—like a pinprick, it all deflated at once.

She was here for treatment?

And that so-called husband of hers wasn’t even by her side.

Julian was caught off guard by her bluntness. His face flashed with embarrassment and irritation.

Yet, weirdly, the relief that she was alone, that there was no husband in sight, outweighed any sting from her words.

If anything, her prickly attitude seemed to prove she was still upset—still cared. Wasn’t that a classic sign a woman was still hung up on you?

“You… you’re sick?” Julian’s Adam’s apple bobbed. His tone softened, almost awkward, a note of concern creeping in he probably didn’t even realize. “How did that happen? Is it bad? What did the doctor say?”

He reached out, intending to check her forehead for fever.

But Gwyneth recoiled instantly, as if dodging something filthy. Her eyes flashed pure disgust as she stepped back. “Save it. It’s just a cold—I’ll live.”

At that moment, Queenie came sweeping up behind Julian, right on cue.

She’d noticed the flash of concern in his eyes—something she’d never seen before—and jealousy had twisted her features for a split second.

But as she drew near, her expression morphed into one of syrupy concern. Her voice turned sweet and high-pitched. “Oh no, Gwyneth, you’re sick? You look awful—are you alright?”

She moved in, reaching out as if to link arms with Gwyneth—like they were sisters or lifelong friends.

But Gwyneth’s eyes cooled and she deftly dodged Queenie’s touch, leaving her arm hanging awkwardly in midair.