The Perfect Wife's Perfect Revenge

Chapter 545

Gwyneth was jolted awake in the middle of the night by the rumble of a sports car pulling into the driveway. She checked her phone-it was already past midnight.

Her throat burned, like she'd swallowed fire. Must have been the spicy takeout she'd had for dinner.

It was probably Hawthorne coming home. Gwyneth was parched and wanted to sneak downstairs for a glass of water, but the last thing she wanted was to bump into that man. So she stayed curled up under the covers, willing her thirst to go away.

From time to time, she'd poke her head out from beneath the duvet, straining her ears for any sign of movement downstairs. Only when she was fairly sure Hawthorne had retreated to his room did she finally tiptoe out into the hallway.

The house was dark except for a dim light in the corridor and a lantern on the porch that swayed gently in the wind and rain.

She hurried downstairs, poured herself a glass of water, and gulped it down in one go. Still thirsty, she filled the glass again.

"Why are you wandering around in the dark?"

overhead made Gwyneth squint, shielding her eyes against the glare. Through her fingers, she caught the outline of a

a faint ember of a cigarette glowing between

the memory of McNeil Langford the man who'd once loved her more than anyone else. She caught a hint of cologne on the air, and

your water and get some rest. It's chilly tonight. Next time you come downstairs, put

her a brief,

tighter and hurried upstairs,

Hawthorne hadn't gone to his room after all; he'd stepped

in his hand-probably finishing his

turned, she couldn't. For some reason, the image of Hawthorne standing

exhaustion won. She managed to drift off at last, only waking when sunlight crept

was alone at breakfast. Outside, the car Hans had used to bring her home yesterday was already waiting to take

to be sharing a ride with Hawthorne, but for some

She asked without thinking.