Revenge Wears My Ring novel Chapter 42

Bennett’s voice was so hoarse it was barely recognizable, his eyes still tightly shut—clearly, he was trapped in some nightmare he couldn’t escape.

His fingers clamped around her wrist like a steel vise, the grip so strong Gwyneth’s hand was starting to go numb.

She froze on the spot.

Peering at Bennett’s face, she saw the pain in his brow give way to a desperate, almost pleading vulnerability. Sweat-soaked hair plastered his pale forehead. The man known in the business world as the unflinching “Ice King” now looked as fragile as a drowning man clinging to the last scrap of driftwood.

“I’m not leaving,” Gwyneth found herself whispering, her free hand gently covering the back of his.

Miraculously, his grip loosened a little, though he still didn’t let go.

Carefully, Gwyneth sat down on the carpet by the bed, letting him hold onto her wrist.

The sound of rain outside faded, and soon the only thing left in the room was the quiet, uneven rhythm of their breathing.

She had no idea how much time passed before Bennett’s breathing finally grew deep and steady.

Gwyneth tried to slip her hand free, but as soon as she did, he murmured anxiously in his sleep, his brow furrowing again. She gave up and lay down beside him, her own consciousness drifting away.

When morning sunlight crept through the gap in the curtains,

Bennett woke up.

He was holding a slender wrist in his hand. Following the curve of her arm, he saw Gwyneth curled up beside him, fast asleep, her eyelashes casting delicate shadows on her cheeks, a stray lock of hair resting near the corner of her lips.

His eyes moved to his carefully bandaged right hand, then to the neatly packed first aid kit on the floor. An emotion he hadn’t felt in years began to bloom in his chest, growing stronger by the second. He instinctively released her hand.

Still sleeping, Gwyneth frowned and unconsciously snuggled closer to the warmth, her forehead nearly pressed against his knee.

Bennett’s hand hovered in the air, then descended to lightly brush the unruly strand of hair from her face.

But it felt as though he’d touched something forbidden; he quickly pulled his hand back.

She must have been terrified last night.

How could someone like him possibly deserve her?

He’d always belonged in the shadows.

Gwyneth was woken by a slant of sunlight warming her eyelids.

She curled up instinctively, the silk sheet slipping from her shoulder, its cool scent unfamiliar—his detergent, not hers. The pillow still carried his scent.

Last night’s memories rushed in like a tide, and she shot upright.

It had all really happened.

There was a faint red mark on the inside of her wrist, exactly where Bennett had held her.

As her fingers softly traced the skin, shards of memory pricked at her mind.

She wore a sharply tailored charcoal suit, her long hair swept into a low, neat bun, makeup subtle and refined—she radiated a distant sort of elegance.

As soon as she stepped inside, a syrupy voice floated down the corridor—

“Oh, Gwyneth, you finally made it~”

Queenie strutted over on sky-high Jimmy Choos, her red dress hugging every curve, crimson lips curving into a smile too sweet to be sincere.

“I just got promoted to VP, thanks to all your support. Can’t believe you’re being transferred,” Queenie cooed, linking her arm through Gwyneth’s and letting her manicured nails graze Gwyneth’s skin, her tone dripping with fake sympathy.

Before Gwyneth could reply, a dry laugh sounded behind them.

“Well, Queenie, aren’t you just the picture of concern?”

Elodie strode over, arms full of files, a fake cigarette dangling from her lips, eyes raking over Queenie with open contempt.

“Lost the Celestial Group account and still got a promotion? Clearly, Queenie’s got some other… talents,” she drawled, putting special emphasis on the word “talents” while her gaze dropped pointedly to Queenie’s neckline.

Elodie had gotten the notification about Queenie’s promotion that morning and hadn’t had a chance to tell Gwyneth yet.

No one needed to guess whether Queenie was here to gloat or to “show concern.”

Honestly, Julian’s taste was getting worse by the year. These people were a joke.

Some things just never change—the trash always seems to find each other.