Revenge Wears My Ring novel Chapter 177

She quietly clenched her fist, her nails digging into her palm until a sharp sting brought her mind into focus.

Fine.

Some debts really ought to be settled face to face.

The sleek black sedan glided to a stop at the understated yet lavish entrance of Skyward Taste.

Gwyneth pushed open the door and stepped out. The cool evening air, laced with the scent of high-end cologne, washed over her, sweeping away any lingering warmth from the cozy courtyard she'd just left behind.

“I’ll wait for you at home.” Bennett’s low voice floated from inside the car. His tone was calm, almost emotionless, but it settled behind her like an anchor.

He understood what she was about to face—and chose to give her the space to handle it.

“Okay.”

Gwyneth didn’t look back. She simply murmured her reply and shut the car door.

The window rolled up slowly, cutting off Bennett’s deep gaze.

Some scores just feel better settled personally.

She took a steadying breath, straightened her back, and, heels clicking quietly, strode into Skyward Taste with calm determination.

She pushed open the heavy door to the private dining room. The air inside was thick with the expensive scent of cigars, mixed with the stale aroma of dishes long gone cold.

Julian sat at the head of the table, face stormy, a glass of costly red wine in front of him—barely touched.

The moment he saw Gwyneth, the anger he’d been bottling up for the past hour exploded.

He snatched up his wine, drained it in a single gulp, and slammed the glass down so hard it rattled the china.

“Gwyneth! Why didn’t you answer your phone? What on earth were you doing? Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting?!”

His voice was sharp with fury and that all-too-familiar sense of entitlement.

Gwyneth acted as though she hadn’t even heard his grating tirade.

Expression cool and detached, she walked straight to the seat opposite him, unhurriedly pulled out the heavy wooden chair, and sat down with perfect composure.

Only then did she lift her gaze, meeting the fire in his eyes with steady calm. Her voice was icy and even:

“Oh? Was it really that long?”

She tilted her head slightly, a wry, cold smile curling at her lips.

“You’re always so busy, Julian. Maybe you’ve forgotten—almost every time we planned a meal, I was the one waiting for you. There was always an excuse: some last-minute meeting, traffic jam, a difficult client—never less than two or three hours.”

She paused, a flash of distaste for her former, naïve self flickering in her eyes.

“And now, just one hour is too much for you?”

Julian choked on her measured accusation, his anger deflating like a punctured balloon.

Thinking back, his face darkened further.

She was right—every word of it.

Had he ever really cared about keeping her waiting? She was just a pawn to him.

If he didn’t still have use for her, would he be bothering with this charade at all?

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