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

mistress wasn't just beautiful-she was

as well.

painting was done. Gwyneth felt a

and picked out a few of her favorite

had sent tea out for her.

was still piping hot, thanks to the clever black stone slab

warm, but

perfect

of clever things in her life, so this

pond and feeding the fish

her seat and took out a block of red sealing wax, ready to carve

stamp.

to Greenvale, she hadn't brought

a quiet place to rest and hadn't planned on staying

she packed light.

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

a slower pace of life. She'd thrown herself

the raw edges of old wounds she preferred

when she was painting or carving-losing herself

-could she find peace.

delicate neck seemed to glow in the

in her

just as she'd

as a

her great-grandfather's house and

his

old-fashioned stamps and seals.

let her play with

learned

more she practiced,

she became

traditional designs.

visited and asked

more, her great-grandfather would

feign forgetfulness, muttering about

memory and