The Perfect Wife's Perfect Revenge

Some of what she wrote was work-related, but most were her own reflections- jotted down and sketched out in the pages of her journal.

Gwyneth lost herself in doodling and writing, hours slipping by without her noticing.

Suddenly, she heard voices from downstairs—the housekeeper greeting someone at the door. She knew instantly it was her uncle coming home, and couldn't resist peeking out of her room.

Sure enough, it was Hawthorne. After a long day at work, he still looked unruffled, not a trace of fatigue on his face.

Gwyneth quickly ducked her head back inside.

"Good evening, sir..."

The butler and one of the maids helped Hawthorne out of his coat, hanging it neatly in the entryway.

He strode to the dining table and paused, frowning at the barely touched plates of food.

"Miss Langford didn't have dinner?"

That seemed the only explanation.

The butler shot him a helpless look. "Miss Langford has such a tiny appetite-just

a few bites and she says she's full. I'll never understand how young ladies eat so little."

Hawthorne gave the butler a cool glance. "Alright, I understand."

With that, he sat down and finished his meal in silence.

Gwyneth barely slept that night, engrossed in her art. She drew and painted, lost in her own world, until nearly four in the morning.

Oh no-she had to be in the office tomorrow. Dawn was only a few hours away. If she didn't get some sleep now, she doubted she'd make it through the morning.

Rushing, she shut down her laptop and moved to close her bedroom door. That's when she noticed a light still on in the study across the hall.

Was Hawthorne still awake? He really was a machine-working all day and still burning the midnight oil.

Yawning widely, Gwyneth decided not to dwell on it.

The next morning, her alarm jerked her awake.

She squinted at the clock-just after seven. She still had over an hour before work, and the bus ride to the office would only take ten minutes. Plenty of time.

She really admired Greenvale, this city of steel and glass, where century-old manor houses were quietly tucked between corporate towers.

If it were Starfall City, there'd be no such residential pockets in the heart of the business district, let alone old family estates or stubborn holdouts from a previous generation.

Gwyneth hurried through her morning routine. She was probably already the talk of the office from yesterday—if she was late again, there'd be even more gossip.

She dressed in a crisp, clean outfit for work and headed downstairs for breakfast, glancing absentmindedly into the garden.

Hawthorne was there, dressed in fresh athletic gear, his usually pale skin tinged with a soft flush.

He looked like he'd just finished a morning run. Gwyneth remembered how late he'd stayed up last night. How could he wake up so early and exercise? His discipline truly amazed her.

She watched as he picked up a watering can from the stone steps.

He moved to a plant, carefully tending to it, water trickling down between leaves. Gwyneth couldn't help but notice his slender, elegant fingers-his cool, pale skin somehow hard to look away from.

He wore white, sunlight breaking over the horizon and bathing him in a golden halo. From where Gwyneth stood, she could only see his profile, but it was enough to leave her breathless for a moment.

Hawthorne belonged to that rare

breed of men with striking,

distinguished features. Years in the

business world, and his

had given him a maturity and

Mirties,

magnetism that far outshone any younger man. noveldrama