Revenge Wears My Ring novel Chapter 60

“Ms. Sutton, is that ‘grand gift’ all set?” Queenie’s voice was shrill with excitement. “When it lands right in front of her, let’s see if she can still keep up that fake prim-and-proper act! I want everyone to see Gwyneth for what she really is—a cheap, conniving gold-digger who slept her way to the top!”

“Don’t worry.” Desiree’s wine glass caught the light, casting a cold glint—much like the look in her eyes.

The flash of icy malice in Desiree’s gaze sent a shiver down Queenie’s spine, but the thrill of anticipation drowned out her fear.

———

Backstage lounge.

Gwyneth pushed open the dressing room door. The space was empty.

She closed the door behind her, leaning against the cool wood for a moment, finally allowing a trace of exhaustion to surface on her face.

She closed her eyes. When she opened them again, every hint of weariness had vanished, leaving only a glint of steely resolve.

Gwyneth dialed Elodie, her voice low and composed.

“Elodie, I need you to look into that new girl—and whoever’s backing her. Focus on this designer, ‘Willa.’ Check her background, all her social accounts, financial records, recent contacts—especially any connections to Queenie and… certain people at Locke Group. And whoever faked that so-called ‘evidence,’ I want their name. Have a preliminary report for me before sunrise.”

She hung up, walked to the window, and gazed down at the street still buzzing with activity.

Amid the chaos, a sleek black Maybach sat quietly in a shadowy corner, its presence almost ghostly.

Half of the rear window slid down, revealing Bennett’s chiseled profile.

What was he doing here?

Suddenly—

Her phone buzzed unexpectedly in her palm.

Bennett’s name flashed on the screen.

She drew a steady breath, answered, and pressed the phone to her ear.

There was only silence on the line, the faint hum of static, and the slow, measured sound of someone breathing.

“Where are you?” Bennett’s voice finally came through—low, even, impossible to read, yet somehow it cut straight through Gwyneth’s composure, shattering the icy calm she’d fought to maintain.

She froze, every defensive line she’d prepared catching in her throat.

Instinctively, she glanced at the black Maybach outside, still lurking in the shadows like some unsolved riddle.

“…The lounge,” she heard herself say, her voice rougher and more uncertain than she expected.

Another brief silence. But this time, it didn’t feel cold; it thrummed with a strange, invisible tension that pulled at her nerves.

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