Revenge Wears My Ring novel Chapter 41

“Even if this is just a marriage on paper,” she started, unable to stop herself, as if something inside demanded she get the words out. She spoke slowly, deliberately. “I don’t want to cause any unnecessary misunderstandings.”

A red light flared at the intersection. Suddenly, Bennett slammed on the brakes.

Without warning, he reached over and turned down the air conditioning. The temperature in the car seemed to drop with it, sinking the mood to rock bottom.

The cold air stopped blasting Bennett in the face, and that tiny gesture sent an inexplicable shiver through her.

“Gwyneth.” Bennett spoke her full name, each syllable carefully drawn out, as if he tasted the sound of it before letting it go. “Did we ever sign any kind of agreement?”

The light turned green. The Rolls-Royce glided back into the flow of traffic.

Rain streaked across the windshield, wipers slicing it into pieces, only for it to gather again—just like the tangled thoughts swirling in Gwyneth’s mind.

She stole a glance at Bennett’s profile. His jaw was set, sharp as a blade, lashes casting fine shadows across his cheek, his brow furrowed deep in thought.

Had she said something to offend him?

Was it the mention of their marriage contract?

Or maybe she shouldn’t have tried to explain at all?

Gwyneth had no idea how to continue; she couldn’t read his shifting moods at all.

So she simply fell silent.

Bennett was hardly some medieval king, but being around him still felt as nerve-wracking as walking on eggshells in the court of a tyrant.

The car soon pulled into the Boyd family estate.

“Get some rest.”

Bennett’s voice was low and rough.

Gwyneth lingered in the car a moment, watching him head towards the front door.

The garage light stretched his tall silhouette across the driveway, and for a second, it felt like his shadow could swallow her whole.

Only then did she gather herself and step out, heading back to her room.

2 a.m.

A flash of lightning split the night sky. Gwyneth woke with a start, hands clammy with cold sweat.

Outside, rain hammered the windows, each drop a sharp, relentless tap like fingernails scratching the glass. She sat up, heart pounding, when suddenly a loud crash came from the room next door—like a whole pane of glass shattering against the floor.

Her heart leapt into her throat.

That was Bennett’s bedroom.

Barefoot on the icy hardwood, her silk nightgown clinging to her back with sweat, she hurried into the hallway.

At the far end, Bennett’s door stood ajar. Another flash of lightning revealed glinting shards of glass scattered on the floor inside.

“Bennett?” Her voice was swallowed instantly by a peal of thunder.

Why would he be taking that?

Gwyneth’s chest tightened with a mix of worry and something she couldn’t quite name.

She knelt beside him and gently lifted his injured hand. The moment her skin touched his, Bennett’s muscles tensed sharply—but he didn’t wake.

Lit by the glow of her phone, she saw not just new wounds on his hand but a constellation of old scars—some neat, straight cuts, others misshapen from rough healing.

Her fingers trembled as she picked out the first sliver of glass with the tweezers. Bennett’s breath hitched, quick and shallow.

“It’s okay,” she murmured, softer than the rain outside. “It’ll be over soon.”

Strangely, her words seemed to calm him. His rigid posture eased, just a little.

Gwyneth kept working, methodically cleaning each wound and dabbing antiseptic, swapping out blood-soaked cotton for fresh until the last shard was gone.

The thunder faded, but the rain only grew heavier.

Raindrops drummed against the windows, strangely soothing, and her touch grew gentler with each pass.

At last, she wrapped the final bandage and let out a shaky breath, ready to leave.

Suddenly, a searing grip closed around her wrist.

“Don’t leave me…”