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

as well.

most of the painting was done. Gwyneth felt a

sipped some tea and picked out a few of her favorite

the butler had sent tea out for her.

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

it warm, but never too hot-so her

the perfect temperature,

seen plenty of clever things in her life,

by the pond and feeding the fish a little

took out a block of red sealing wax,

stamp.

she'd come to Greenvale, she hadn't brought much

a quiet place to rest

she packed light.

leaving her with little time to pick

slower pace of life. She'd thrown

would numb the raw edges of old wounds

was painting or carving-losing herself in the careful, steady

-could she find peace.

neck seemed to glow in the

life in her hands, and after another ninety minutes,

carving the stamp just as she'd

remembered, as

her great-grandfather's house and

his collection

old-fashioned stamps and seals.

let her play

learned to carve

The more she

she became

traditional designs.

she visited and asked

more, her great-grandfather would

feign forgetfulness, muttering about

memory