Revenge Wears My Ring novel Chapter 142

He deliberately emphasized the words “Ms. Fletcher,” his tone dripping with condescension and mockery.

When he uttered “late”—the word lingered, charged with meaning. It wasn’t just about punctuality; it was a warning. Next time, she wouldn’t have anywhere to run—and no one would just “happen” to interrupt.

Faced with this naked threat, Gwyneth’s expression didn’t so much as flicker.

She even let her lips curl into a flawless, perfectly measured smile.

It hung on her porcelain features, but her eyes remained as calm and unfathomable as a midnight lake—utterly devoid of warmth or fear.

She stood there in silence, meeting Zayden’s icy stare and Julian’s probing gaze, like a night-blooming flower quietly opening at the edge of a storm.

“Thank you for your… concern, Mr. Ford,” she replied, her voice clear and unhurried. “Safe travels. I won’t see you out.”

Zayden let out a cold snort, then disappeared around the corner, Desiree still in his arms.

Only Gwyneth, Julian, and Queenie remained in the room, along with the tension and the charged silence that lingered in the air like the fading trace of gunpowder.

Gwyneth’s smile stayed perfectly in place, but her gaze drifted past Julian, following the direction where Bennett had just vanished. Deep in her eyes, behind that serene facade, nothing could be read.

Zayden, holding Desiree, vanished into the shadows at the end of the corridor. His heavy footsteps receded, each one echoing like a fading drumbeat in the thick, unmoving air.

Slowly, Gwyneth’s perfect, icy smile faded as well, slipping away like the tide to reveal the hard stone beneath.

She turned, her eyes sweeping over Queenie, who stood beside Julian with a conflicted expression, barely daring to breathe. That calm, steady gaze made Queenie instinctively shrink back half a step, avoiding her line of sight.

At last, Gwyneth’s attention settled on Julian.

He hadn’t moved, still standing there with his gold-rimmed glasses and those deep, watchful eyes. Yet the effortless control he always wore seemed to have developed a hairline fracture, thanks to Zayden’s unpredictable outburst.

Julian hadn’t expected Zayden to lose control like that—so blunt, so ruthless.

On his own turf, right in front of him, Zayden had openly gone after Gwyneth. The blatant disrespect was like a fine splinter, pricking Julian’s carefully maintained composure.

Gwyneth drew a quiet breath. When she spoke again, her voice was as clear as ever, but now—just barely—there was the faintest tremor, something subtle and restrained: a note of hurt and confusion that was all the more striking for its restraint.

She wasn’t falling apart. It was just a tiny hairline crack in fine china—almost invisible, but impossible to ignore, and somehow more arresting than an open display of weakness.

“So,”

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