Revenge Wears My Ring novel Chapter 95

In the top-floor VIP suite of Harmony Hospital, the air felt as cold and lifeless as a frozen lake.

Desiree was still standing rigidly by the bedside, the forced smile on her face long since shattered, leaving only resentment and bitterness churning in her eyes.

She stared at Bennett, whose expression remained utterly impassive—he couldn’t even be bothered to spare her an extra glance. The humiliation was so overwhelming, she felt as if she might drown in it.

After seeing Gwyneth out, Hugo slipped quietly back to the doorway. He’d intended to report in, but when he noticed Desiree still inside, he stopped short, lingering in the shadow just outside.

Old Yale really knew how to stir up trouble. All he wanted was to keep a tight grip on Mr. Boyd, and this—this was the best he could do? Sending someone like her to watch over him? Hugo shook his head inwardly. He’d have done better just cloning Ms. Fletcher.

Bennett didn’t even bother to look up from his paperwork; he barely glanced at Desiree’s tense, twisted face from the corner of his eye.

His voice was calm and steady, almost detached, but the chill in it was suffocating—a clear dismissal that brooked no argument.

“If your driver isn’t here, call a cab.”

He paused just long enough to make it sting, then added, “Now. Leave.”

Those simple words cut deeper than any angry outburst. In one breath, he’d stripped away Desiree’s last excuse—the pretense of “waiting for her driver”—as easily as tearing off a veil. All the dignity she’d worked so hard to maintain crumbled to dust in front of Bennett.

Desiree swayed, nails digging so hard into her palms she nearly drew blood. She jerked her head up, wild-eyed and desperate, making one final, reckless attempt.

“Bennett, you can’t treat me this way! I—”

“Hugo.” Bennett’s voice didn’t rise, not even a fraction. It was cold and precise, slicing through Desiree’s words before they ever left her lips.

He still didn’t look at her. He simply spoke, flat and final: “Show her out.”

———

The next morning, at Midrise Mansion.

Sunlight was held at bay by heavy blackout curtains, leaving the bedroom swathed in a perpetual, dreamlike twilight.

Gwyneth lay sunk deep into a bed as soft as a cloud, her mind slowly surfacing through the thick warmth of sleep. It felt like floating up through golden syrup.

With effort, she pried open her heavy eyelids and squinted at the ceiling, where a crystal chandelier glowed with gentle, diffused light—a model of modern simplicity.

It was identical to the one in her mother’s old house, in the bedroom where she’d spent her childhood.

Everything in this room Bennett had given her seemed to fall precisely into place, hitting every secret comfort she’d ever craved. The familiarity was so perfect, so disarming, that she surrendered to it without a second thought.