Revenge Wears My Ring novel Chapter 279

She stuffed the USB drive into her pocket without a second thought, her tone dripping with indifference.

“Yeah, I heard you. I’ll bring it up when I get a chance.”

Without waiting for a reply, she stepped around Winston, pulled open the front door, and walked out without the slightest hesitation.

Winston watched her disappearing silhouette, and the forced smile on his face vanished in an instant, replaced by a cloud of anger and darkness.

He glared at the empty doorway, muttering under his breath, voice low and laced with venom:

“Ungrateful brat. Just like her useless mother. No matter how much you give, it’s never enough—pure vipers, the both of them.”

Serena, only a few steps outside, caught every poisonous word that drifted through the crack in the door.

Her back went rigid, and she froze in place. At her side, her hand clenched so tightly her nails dug deep into her palm.

How dare he mention her mother?

She’d stayed abroad for years just to avoid that smug, two-faced man. He was unbearable.

But it was that one sentence—about her mother—that sliced through her defenses like a poisoned dagger, sharper and more vicious than all his previous disdain and manipulation.

She didn’t turn back, didn’t explode. Instead, she just stood there, motionless in the cold night air, for a few aching seconds.

Then she straightened her spine, set her jaw, and strode to her car with a defiant resolve. The roar of the engine shattered the silence as she sped away into the darkness.

From an upstairs window, Winston watched her taillights disappear into the night. The last trace of his false affection vanished, leaving only cold calculation and a scowl.

He turned away from the window, stepped back into the chilly, silent house, and immediately pulled out his phone. Dialing a number, he waited through several rings before the call was finally answered.

The voice on the other end was Queenie’s—deliberately hushed, tinged with both sleepiness and anxiety.

“Hello?”

Winston moved to the window, peering out into the pitch-black night, his own voice dropping into a conspiratorial, unsettling whisper:

“I’ve already given her the drive. How about you? Any progress with Julian?”

Queenie was holed up in the guest bathroom, clutching her phone tight, terrified that any sound might escape. She shot a glance toward the bedroom—Julian, it seemed, was still asleep. She lowered her voice to a frustrated whisper:

“He’s practically living at the office these days. Comes home late, collapses into bed, or shuts himself in the study. I can’t get near his computer—I haven’t seen a single important file…”

Winston’s voice grew tight with annoyance, though he tried to keep his patience:

“Just hang in there. Keep looking for an opening. This has to work, sweetheart.”

The way he drawled “sweetheart” was syrupy and repulsive, making Queenie’s skin crawl. She forced herself not to roll her eyes, swallowing her disgust.

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