The Perfect Wife's Perfect Revenge

Chapter 583

"The light's green. You can go."

It took Gwyneth a moment to snap out of her daze, her ears already filled with a chorus of impatient car horns.

Flushed scarlet, she stomped on the gas. The sports car roared to life and shot forward.

For the rest of the drive, Hawthorne tried talking to her, but Gwyneth barely seemed to hear him. She drove on autopilot, muscle memory guiding her hands while her mind drifted somewhere far away.

Hawthorne glanced over at her lips—still red and swollen from his kiss—and a flicker of regret crossed his face.

"I was a little rough just now. Sorry about that."

Gwyneth didn't really catch what he said, but murmured an absent-minded "Mm- hmm" anyway.

He went on, "Next time I kiss you, I'll be gentler. And if you ever feel uncomfortable, you have to tell me."

Letting the cool evening breeze from the window wash over her face, Gwyneth tried to will away the heat in her cheeks. She didn't dare risk another glance at Hawthorne.

The old family house wasn't far from the villa his grandfather had gifted him. Fifteen minutes later, the car pulled up in front of a stately old manor. The grand oak doors gleamed with fresh paint, and inside, the place was a maze of elegant walkways, manicured gardens, and a sparkling pond. It looked like a miniature version of Hawthorne's estate in Greenvale.

paused for a moment, surprised by

really was

he'd bought this property years ago...well, that made things even

she stepped inside, she noticed the way everything was arranged—almost identical to Hawthorne's own place, right down

the old house; by the time they arrived here,

led the way to the dining room, moving around as if he'd lived here for years. He brewed a pot of tea for

can make us

growled. She remembered barely touching

bistro earlier-too nervous about

meal alone together to eat much. Now she was starving,

can cook?" she blurted, unable to hide her surprise. He didn't look like someone who belonged in

and rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt. His

black chef's knife. The muscles in his forearm? flexed with each movement, and his open collar

kind of man looked

but steal a few glances while sipping her tea, sneaking

plating was brisk and precise; the cold appetizers and salad he assembled looked like

of coffee-decorated with delicate latte art—on the counter, then brought it over