Revenge Wears My Ring novel Chapter 230

Something was off about the taste.

In an instant, his taste buds and memories rebelled, sending a sharp wave of rejection through him.

This wasn’t it.

So how exactly did Gwyneth make hers?

It was just plain soup, wasn’t it? Yet somehow, when she made it, everything was different.

No matter how temperamental his stomach was after a night of drinking, her soup always soothed him—every single time.

He’d had the housekeeper try to recreate it, following his instructions to the letter. But no matter how many attempts, every bowl that landed on his bedside table just wasn’t the same.

It was as if her soup contained something only she could give—a secret ingredient that couldn’t be measured or taught.

Just one spoonful, and all his appetite vanished.

He quietly set the spoon down, returning the bowl to the nightstand.

Queenie had been watching his reaction the whole time, anxiety written across her face. She hurried over as soon as she saw him stop.

“What’s wrong? Is it not to your taste? Did I mess up the flavor?”

Julian shook his head, avoiding her searching gaze. He leaned back against the pillows, genuine exhaustion and a trace of unspoken frustration clouding his features. His voice was rough.

“It’s fine. I’m just not hungry. Leave it for now.”

He closed his eyes, trying to banish the memory of that perfect bowl of soup—the way it always seemed to echo her presence—and the hollow ache that settled in his chest.

——————

Midrise Mansion

Gwyneth stepped through the door, and a wave of relief washed over her—warm and gentle, unlike anything she’d felt before.

It was over. Finally, truly over.

The air was free of Julian’s oppressive presence, no lingering scent of arguments or tension. Instead, the apartment was filled with a calming quiet that let her breathe easy.

But within that hush, a new sensation crept in—a delicious aroma, subtle at first, drifting from the kitchen and winding its way through the living room.

She paused, surprised, and glanced around.

Bennett wasn’t in bed. He was sitting on the couch, flipping idly through a finance magazine. The soft glow of the floor lamp cast gentle shadows across his usually severe profile, making him look almost approachable.

He looked up at the sound of the door, his gaze landing on her with uncanny precision—as if he’d been waiting all along.

“You’re home?”

He closed the magazine. His deep, even voice gave little away, but for some reason, it always settled her nerves.

He nodded toward the kitchen. “I made some chicken broth. It’s been simmering—go have some, warm yourself up.”

Her heart gave a little jolt, sudden and unsteady, then melted in a wave of warmth.

How did he know…?

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