Revenge Wears My Ring novel Chapter 137

Zayden’s protective gesture was all Julian and Queenie needed—it was like someone had injected them with a shot of adrenaline.

Julian’s eyes flashed behind his glasses, and he pushed them up as he said, “Zayden, Desiree, I’ve reserved a private suite on the top floor. It’s quiet—perfect for catching up!”

Queenie jumped in at once, eager to help, “Exactly! Mr. Ford and Desiree haven’t seen each other in ages. I bet you two have so much to talk about.”

As she spoke, she glanced sideways at Julian, looking for his approval.

Julian led Zayden and Desiree toward the more secluded suite area, shooting a harsh glare at the gossiping onlookers. His warning was clear as day.

Desiree was the key to landing the resort deal. With Zayden’s obsession and persistence, Julian was certain the project would go through. He wouldn’t let anyone ruin this for him.

The private cigar lounge atop Nocturne Spirits was a world away from the chaos below, shut off by a heavy oak door. Only the faint crackle of burning tobacco and a tense, storm-brewing silence lingered in the air.

Zayden sat sunken deep into a velvet sofa, a cigar burning between his fingers, its ash long and forgotten.

Warm golden light carved out the rigid lines of his jaw, while a storm of anger and twisted protectiveness simmered beneath his eyes, like a volcano on the verge of eruption.

He told himself he’d come back for the resort deal, but he couldn’t deny he also wanted to see Desiree again.

But seeing her now—her once-glowing face now pale and drawn—made his blood boil.

It took some coaxing before Desiree finally stammered out her story: some woman named Gwyneth, jealous of her, had tried to drug her.

She hadn’t succeeded, but photos had still been taken.

Despicable.

How could anyone be that vile?

Julian watched Zayden, recognizing the barely restrained fury on his face. Clearly, Zayden didn’t know the whole truth. Keeping him in the dark had been the right move.

In the corner, Desiree huddled beneath a thick fleece throw, curled up, anxious under the scrutiny of the others—like a frightened songbird desperate for shelter.

She raised her pale face, eyes shining with tears as she looked up at Zayden. Her voice trembled, carrying both trauma and a subtle nudge for sympathy:

“Zayden… I was tricked. I’m scared to even go outside now. It’s all Gwyneth’s fault. If she’d succeeded… Thank God she didn’t. I’m so sorry…”

She stopped at just the right moment, letting the accusation hang in the air—Gwyneth’s malice, Desiree’s narrow escape.

Zayden’s eyes narrowed, his knuckles whitening.

“Julian,” he said, voice low and firm, brooking no argument. “Bring Gwyneth here.”

Julian hesitated, a flicker of doubt in his eyes, but said nothing.

With Queenie here, he wasn’t about to let that sycophant Gwyneth show up—Queenie was the one who really mattered to him.

Desiree’s shoulders trembled at Zayden’s command, her head bowed, which only made Zayden’s fury burn hotter.

He pressed, “Julian, call her. I want to meet her.”

Julian clearly wasn’t thrilled, but he had to save face. He stepped out into the hallway to make the call.

Outside the suite, Julian’s expression soured.

He’d rung Gwyneth, only to realize she still had him blocked.

Grinding his teeth, he called Elodie instead.

Elodie probably lived with her, didn’t she?

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