Revenge Wears My Ring novel Chapter 118

“Yes, sir. Your instructions?”

“There’s an unmarked grave near the Fletcher family’s plot at Haven Cemetery—think ten o’clock from their headstones, about fifty to sixty feet away,” Bennett said, his gaze fixed on the blur of city streets racing past the car window. But in his mind’s eye, he was already standing in that cold, forgotten corner of the graveyard. “No name, no photo, no inscription. Find out who’s buried there, when they were laid to rest, and how they’re connected to Gwyneth. I want every detail, and I want it fast—use whatever resources you need.”

On the other end, Hugo seemed to pick up on the unusual gravity and icy urgency in his boss’s voice. He didn’t hesitate. “Understood, Mr. Boyd. I’ll get on it right away!”

The call ended, leaving the car wrapped in silence once more.

Bennett slipped his phone back into his pocket and turned his attention to Gwyneth’s pale face. She looked as if she’d sunk even deeper into sleep; her breathing was more even, but her brow remained furrowed.

He reached out, his fingertips hovering just above the crease between her brows, but stopped short of touching her. For a moment, his cool hand lingered in the air before he slowly drew it back.

Leaning against the headrest, he closed his eyes. Thick lashes cast deep shadows beneath them, and that handsome face—so often guarded by a chill—was now etched only with exhaustion and a loneliness too profound for words. It was the kind of solitude that comes from walking through darkness alone.

A ridiculous thought crept into his mind—so absurd it almost made him laugh, yet so real it left his chest tight and aching.

Was he jealous of that nameless grave?

He, Bennett, actually envied a forgotten patch of earth?

——

After returning from Haven Cemetery, Gwyneth seemed utterly drained. She spent two or three days in bed, barely moving. The fever had long since broken, but the weight in her heart and the nightmare of fire and a little boy clung to her like invisible shackles, sapping her spirit and leaving her indifferent to everything else.

That afternoon, an embossed invitation arrived at the house.

Gwyneth was curled up on the living room couch under a light blanket. Sunlight poured through the tall windows, warming her skin but not easing the weariness in her eyes.

She picked up the beautifully crafted envelope and opened it.

It was an invitation to Father Jeff and his wife’s golden wedding anniversary.

At the familiar name, a faint, genuine warmth touched Gwyneth’s pale, tired features.

Jeff was the country’s most revered fashion designer—legendary, irreverent, a playful spirit in a world of glamour. He and Gwyneth were icons of their generation, each in their own field, bound by mutual respect and a rare, cherished friendship across the years.

When Gwyneth was just starting out, Jeff had always looked out for her.

“This old man…” she murmured, gazing at the invitation’s silhouette of a couple and the elegant script: “Fifty Years of Devotion—Hand in Hand Through Life.” A smile, wry but warm, curved her lips as she shook her head. “Fifty years, and he still insists on such a grand celebration.”

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