Revenge Wears My Ring novel Chapter 173

The forty million he’d invested.

Just moments ago, he’d been boasting about the fifty-two point eight million in profit he was about to rake in.

The single biggest bargaining chip he had for inheriting the Locke Group.

All his ambition, every last scheme—obliterated in a single instant by that piece of breaking news. Crushed, ground to dust.

This was despair far beyond any business failure.

This was annihilation from a force no one could resist.

A tidal wave of terror and hopelessness swallowed Julian whole.

He jerked his head around, his bloodshot eyes wild and hateful, like a wounded animal on the verge of death, pinning that figure in the VIP gallery with a venomous glare—

Bennett.

Bennett still stood tall, unflinching, his expression unreadable.

Gwyneth remained beside him, her face tinged with surprise, but she was watching Bennett more than the chaos unfolding below.

When Julian’s poisonous gaze shot over, Bennett didn’t so much as flinch.

His dark eyes met Julian’s, steady and cold—not a trace of triumph or mockery, just an unfathomable understanding and a chilling indifference.

Why had he held back all this time?

Why had he seemed so uninterested in the Cloudview Resort deal?

He knew. Of course he knew.

He must have seen it coming long ago.

This was all his design.

A frigid chill shot up from Yale’s feet, paralyzing him with the realization.

After the initial shock and despair at the project’s collapse, Yale’s mind—long steeped in the cutthroat world of power and intrigue—finally cleared, as if split wide open by a lightning strike.

Just one move.

One single, decisive move.

Bennett hadn’t needed to raise a paddle at auction, hadn’t needed to fight them head-to-head in the marketplace.

This wasn’t business competition at all. It was a meticulously orchestrated, foolproof kill.

A trap with no escape.

Yale snapped his gaze across the sea of frenzied onlookers, fixing on the solitary figure at the eye of the storm.

That young face—so like the man in the old photograph—betrayed no elation at revenge, only a glacial calm and the detachment of someone who held all the strings.

A dry, brittle laugh slipped from Yale’s cracked lips, quiet and cold, colored by a twisted sort of admiration.

“Well played. Very well played…” he muttered under his breath, so softly only he could hear. “Far more formidable than that pathetic father of his, who wasted his life on sentiment and died without ever knowing why…”

His praise was laced with the bitterest hatred—and the deepest fear.

The last glint of light faded from Yale’s eyes, leaving only the icy calculation of a venomous snake.

But in the end, he’s still just my dog.

Yale gave Bennett one last, lingering look.

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