Revenge Wears My Ring novel Chapter 170

All eyes in the room, as if drawn by some invisible magnet, snapped to the man who had just strode in.

He wore a perfectly tailored black suit, the dark fabric throwing his cool, pale skin into sharp relief and accentuating his striking, chiseled features.

No tie. The collar of his shirt was open, one button undone, giving him a careless, almost languid air that clashed starkly with the formality of the event—a dangerous nonchalance, at odds with the setting.

He walked in, unhurried and confident, as if he’d simply dropped by for a casual gathering rather than crashing the most important ceremony of the year.

But when his deep eyes swept the hall, they carried a cold, imperious scrutiny that seemed to freeze the very air in their path.

Up on the stage, Julian’s smile froze in place, as if instantly carved in ice.

In a single heartbeat, all his pride and triumph evaporated, replaced by an ashen pallor and a chill that seeped into his bones.

Bennett.

Of all times—why now?

A surge of anger, mingled with humiliation at being publicly interrupted and challenged, boiled in Julian’s chest.

What made it worse was the knowledge that Bennett had come with trouble in mind—yet Julian couldn’t lay a finger on any concrete fault, couldn’t seize any leverage against him.

The frustration was suffocating, like having a splinter stuck in his throat—impossible to ignore, impossible to resolve.

Below the stage, Yale’s response was even more intense.

A moment ago, he’d been smiling, pride shining in his eyes as he watched his son on the cusp of glory. But the instant he recognized Bennett, that warmth vanished, scattered like mist in a winter gale.

In its place was a deep, bone-chilling gloom, darker even than Julian’s.

Yale’s grip on his wine glass tightened so hard his knuckles turned bone white, the ice clinking and cracking under the strain.

He stared at Bennett—his “son”—his gaze roiling with a storm of emotion: wariness, anger, disgust, and a faint, unacknowledged tremor of fear, the kind that lingers in the shadow of old sins.

The entire hall—mere seconds ago buzzing, on the verge of celebration—fell into a thick, unnatural silence.

It lasted only a heartbeat, but it was suffocating, heavy enough to crush the air from the room. Then, in a rush, the hush exploded into a roar of whispers and camera flashes, all focus locked on the black-suited figure heading for the reserved VIP seats.

Julian couldn’t tear his eyes away from Bennett, watching him take his seat with infuriating composure. The indignity of being interrupted, the humiliation of a public challenge—it all threatened to shatter his composure.

He had no leverage over Bennett, but that didn’t mean he would simply sit back and let things play out.

As the emcee awkwardly tried to regain control of the event, preparing to announce Julian’s name again, Julian abruptly raised his hand, signaling for a pause.

He drew in a deep breath—one that burned like swallowing molten lava—searing him from the inside, but also giving him the desperate courage to push forward.

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