Revenge Wears My Ring novel Chapter 154

“The reassignment was a standard personnel transfer arranged by corporate HR, based on project needs and management directives. As employees, it’s our basic professional duty to comply.”

She paused, meeting Queenie’s suddenly ashen face with calm, steady eyes. Her tone was still gentle, but every word rang with unmistakable clarity:

“As for how it was accomplished, since you’re so curious…” A faint, almost pitying trace of mockery flickered in Gwyneth’s eyes as her lips curved into a deeper smile. “Why don’t you ask Mr. Locke yourself?”

She pronounced “Mr. Locke” with a subtle emphasis, making each syllable land with precision.

The memory of being thrown out by that old fossil Yale was still painfully fresh in Queenie’s mind.

Queenie’s face flushed red, then went deathly pale, trembling with anger.

That bitch, Gwyneth!

How dare she!

A wave of icy dread and humiliation crashed over Queenie, threatening to drown her on the spot.

The air around her felt thin and suffocating. The inquisitive glances from nearby colleagues now seemed like a thousand needles, pricking at her exposed skin.

She could feel it, unmistakably—the carefully crafted image of “Vice President Queenie” shattered in an instant. With one casual sentence, Gwyneth had stripped her bare, exposing the truth underneath: a flailing, desperate woman, unrecognized by the Locke family, clinging to a title that meant nothing.

Queenie opened her mouth, desperate to retort, but Gwyneth had already turned away, unhurried and composed.

She didn’t say another word.

Her heels clicked briskly against the polished floor—sharp, steady, and utterly unperturbed.

With her slender, upright posture, Gwyneth strode forward, eyes fixed ahead, ignoring the stares that followed her. The brief confrontation seemed to slide from her shoulders like a speck of dust.

Sunlight poured through the vast windows, stretching her silhouette down the corridor.

Her departing figure radiated a quiet composure, the kind forged in storms—a solitary, unspoken declaration of victory.

Queenie remained rooted on the spot, her face ghostly pale, hatred swirling so thick around her it was almost palpable.

“Gwyneth… Fletcher…”

She spat out the name through gritted teeth, each syllable laced with venom.

——————

Gwyneth pushed open the familiar door, and the scent of wood polish and paper swept over her—a fragrance that belonged to her past.

Afternoon sunlight streamed in through the massive windows, bathing the spacious office in a golden glow. Dust motes danced lazily in the beams.

She paused on the threshold, momentarily still.

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