The Perfect Wife's Perfect Revenge

Ever since Hawthorne bluntly told Yvette to mind her own business, Gwyneth's days at the office had become noticeably easier.

Her relationship with Hawthorne was warming, too—a slow, steady thaw.

"I'm taking you to France tomorrow," he announced one night.

Gwyneth's heart stuttered. She remembered her promise to Connor and, for the first time, felt a pang of guilt.

"I have something tomorrow,” she said, trying to keep her tone light. "Someone commissioned a painting. I promised I'd finish it for them."

Hawthorne's brows knitted. "A commission? You're taking freelance work besides your concept art here?"

Gwyneth had no choice but to double down. "Yeah, I took it before I joined your company. It's for a client-he lost his wife and wants a portrait to remember her by. It's almost done; the deadline's right around the corner. I don't want to hold

him up."

"I don't remember you mentioning this before," Hawthorne said, skeptical.

was indeed coming up—just not for another week. She was

sounded casual. Hawthorne ruffled her hair. "Alright, if you really can't

"No-!"

flared in Gwyneth's chest. If Hawthorne didn't go to France, she'd never find time to keep her

calm

off your work for me. Besides, you're

next day. I was supposed to

enough

you miss me?" she

into his arms. Her heart

an early flight ahead, Hawthorne only made love to her twice that

kiss to her forehead, lingering for a moment before

to the sound of her phone buzzing-Hawthorne, calling from the helicopter. He spoke only briefly before hanging up, promising to call again after he

for the afternoon, perfectly timed

was different

she'd known, but