Revenge Wears My Ring novel Chapter 132

She deliberately emphasized the words “old office” and “temporary,” her eyes brimming with a barely concealed smugness.

Gwyneth didn’t break stride. She didn’t even glance at Queenie, heading straight for the executive elevator with calm indifference. “Where’s my office? Queenie, you seem a little too invested. Take me to the twenty-third floor.”

Queenie’s smile froze, and a flicker of malice flashed in her eyes.

She hadn’t expected Gwyneth, even in these circumstances, to remain so unfazed, so arrogant.

Suppressing her anger, Queenie forced herself to play the part of the ever-gracious superior. She gestured to a nearby assistant. “Dennis, show Ms. Fletcher to her new desk.”

The assistant, visibly nervous, nodded and led Gwyneth toward the regular employee elevator.

As the elevator doors slid shut, they cut off Queenie’s poisonous glare—and the sudden wave of whispered gossip that erupted behind her.

Twenty-third floor, Project Coordination, Section B.

This area was far from the company’s core offices, tucked near the supply closet and copy room, noisy and cramped. Gwyneth was led to a tiny desk wedged in the corner, right beside the water cooler. A sticky coffee ring from the previous occupant marred the surface, left uncleaned.

“Ms. Fletcher, this… this is your desk,” the assistant mumbled, head lowered, voice barely above a whisper, clearly afraid to meet Gwyneth’s gaze.

A few employees nearby, pretending to be busy, snuck glances at the company’s once-legendary secretary—now demoted to “consultant.” Their expressions were complicated, a mix of curiosity and unease.

Gwyneth glanced over the humiliatingly chosen desk. Her face betrayed nothing.

She didn’t even bother to wipe away the coffee stain. Calmly, she set down her laptop and a slim file folder, pulled out the chair, and sat with quiet composure.

Her movements were fluid and unhurried, as if she were claiming a throne rather than being relegated to a forgotten corner.

She powered up her computer, connected to the network, and got to work, her poise unshaken.

That serenity unsettled the onlookers even more than a public outburst would have.

Queenie soon made her way down as well—she wanted to see Gwyneth humiliated in person.

But seeing Gwyneth sitting there, unruffled and dignified, not flustered or angry as she’d imagined, only fueled Queenie’s resentment.

With a theatrical sway, Queenie strode over, deliberately raising her voice: “Oh, Gwyneth, settling in so soon? Quite the survivor, aren’t you? But coordination is a different ballgame—it’s not as cushy as what you had at Locke Group. Lucky for you, I’ve got a stack of backlog reports that need the attention of a ‘special consultant.’”

She slammed a thick pile of obviously outdated files onto Gwyneth’s desk, sending up a puff of dust.

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