Revenge Wears My Ring novel Chapter 180

Her cheeks flushed, but she refused to back down. Instead, she shot back with a defiant edge, “That’s not necessarily true! After all, we—”

She meant to say, “After all, this is just a business arrangement,” or maybe, “It’s not like there’s any real feeling between us.” But before she could finish, Bennett's gaze darkened, something sharp flickering in his eyes. He instantly sensed where she was headed—words he had no intention of hearing.

“Gwyneth,” he cut in, his voice low and commanding, leaving no room for argument. “I want to show you something.”

He didn’t hesitate. Reaching out, he flipped open the laptop that he’d just closed a moment ago. The harsh glow of the screen returned, stark against the cozy lamplight.

Gwyneth instinctively looked over.

A set of blown-up photos filled the screen. The angles were deliberately misleading, the framing calculated to provoke all the wrong ideas. In one, Julian leaned in, gazing at her with what looked suspiciously like longing. In another, he took her hand while she lowered her eyes, her posture almost shy—though she knew she’d only been trying to hide her emotions.

Every photo was blurred at the edges, just enough to erase the context and leave behind only suggestive, ambiguous scenes.

Gwyneth stared at those venomously chosen images, her breath catching. A chill slithered up her spine, cold and poisonous.

Who took these?

The shots were too precise, the composition too intentional—it was clear the photographer had a goal in mind.

She jerked her head up, her gaze razor-sharp as it locked onto Bennett. “Who sent you these?” she demanded, her voice taut with anger and a sense of violated privacy.

Bennett leaned back in his chair, his eyes unreadable. “Anonymous email,” he replied.

Anonymous? Gwyneth almost laughed. She could count her enemies on one hand. In her mind’s eye, she saw Queenie’s face, twisted with jealousy. Odds were, it was her. But hunches weren’t proof.

She didn’t hesitate, nor did she bother asking for Bennett’s permission. Reaching over, she dragged the laptop towards her. Her slim fingers danced across the keyboard, quick as lightning—nothing but a blur. Lines of code scrolled down the command window, numbers and symbols flickering and shifting.

Bennett’s composure finally cracked. He stared openly at her, at the icy focus etched on her profile, at the nimble precision of her fingers as they commanded the keyboard like a concert pianist performing a fiendishly difficult piece. She was powerful in a way he’d never imagined—cool, competent, unyielding.

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