The Perfect Wife's Perfect Revenge

She stood by the edge of the pond, scattering feed for the fish. Winter sunlight

warmed her shoulders, turning her dark hair into a waterfall of glimmering light.

Her long lashes fluttered gently with each breath and movement, and even in

profile, she was strikingly beautiful.

Around the garden, the housekeepers swept and tidied, but whenever the staff

caught sight of the new lady of the house, they couldn't help but marvel inwardly

-Mr. Hawthorne had truly married a beauty.

The butler, noticing how much she enjoyed herself, had refreshments sent out to

the garden. Most of the greenery in the Hawthorne estate had been chosen for

their evergreen resilience, so even in the dead of winter, the grounds felt vibrant

and alive.

After lingering for a while to enjoy the view, Gwyneth made her way to the study to

fetch her easel and paints-especially the precious ultramarine she'd had ground

from lapis lazuli, a gift from Hawthorne himself. He'd bought her all kinds of rare

pigments. At first, she'd hesitated to use them, thinking it a pity to waste such

treasures. Now, she realized it was even more wasteful to let them sit unused.

She set up her easel in the shade of a tree and began to sketch, translating the

garden's lively charm onto canvas.

The staff, never having seen anyone paint before, often found themselves

sneaking glances at her focused expression, then walking away whispering in

them, the new mistress wasn't

as well.

hours, most of the painting was done. Gwyneth felt a little

tea and picked out a few of

earlier that the butler had sent tea out for her. Even after

hot, thanks to the clever black stone slab beneath

warm, but never too hot-so her tea

at the perfect temperature, the

things in her

and feeding the fish a

block of red sealing wax, ready to

stamp.

she hadn't brought much with her.

quiet place to rest and hadn't planned on staying long,

she packed light.

job here had been demanding, leaving her with little time to pick up

slower pace of life. She'd thrown herself into work, hoping

of old wounds she preferred not

or carving-losing herself in

-could she find peace.

delicate neck seemed to glow in the

her hands,

the stamp just as she'd

as a

her great-grandfather's house and

at his collection

old-fashioned stamps and seals.

let her play with them,

learned

more she practiced,

fascinated she

traditional designs.

visited and

more, her great-grandfather would

feign forgetfulness, muttering about

poor memory and pretending