The Perfect Wife's Perfect Revenge

Chapter 544

It was nothing at first, but somehow things had escalated into this confusing mess.

Hans quietly pressed down on the accelerator, just as Gwyneth's phone started ringing again. She glanced at the screen-a number she didn't recognize. Instinctively, she assumed it was Bill Crawford.

"That bastard really doesn't know when to quit," she muttered. "I just told him off, and he has the nerve to call again?"

Leonie's attention immediately shifted. For the first time, Gwyneth actually felt grateful for Bill Crawford's persistent calls.

She swiped to answer, only to be greeted by a telemarketer's pitch. Gwyneth listened to the pointless spiel, then cut in with a cool, "No thanks," before hanging up.

But just the mention of Bill Crawford was enough to get Leonie going. She spent the rest of the drive ranting about him, not stopping until she remembered they were supposed to go to Gwyneth's apartment. By then, Hans had already pulled up in front of the Everhart family manor.

Mrs. Everhart had been growing anxious-it was well past nine and there was still no sign of Leonie. She waited at the door, too worried to call and risk upsetting her daughter.

Leonie was the Everharts' miracle; Mrs. Everhart had nearly died giving birth to her, and Leonie herself had spent forty days in an incubator before she finally pulled through. They cherished her beyond words, indulging her every whim and never once able to bring themselves to scold her-only Hawthorne ever managed to get a word of reproach in.

announced as he stopped the car,

was already leaning out the window

ma'am," she called

Leonie. "Leonie, it's late and freezing out

spotted her daughter. Out of

clasped both their hands, her touch gentle, her expression full of affection. "Your hands are ice-cold. Come in for a cup

politely. "Thank you, but I have work in

Hans, and

Leonie clung to her mother, her eyes shining with reluctance. "If I'd known

pressed her lips together, feeling an unexpected warmth bloom

on watching as Gwyneth drove off before she'd agree to go inside. Mrs. Everhart strolled back toward the house

you call Hans to pick

her eyes. "He's Uncle Hawthorne's driver,

but the moment she caught the aroma of tea drifting through the foyer, she perked up

too much, and a cup of hot tea was just the thing to cut through the