The Perfect Wife's Perfect Revenge

Gwyneth Langford woke to find herself alone once again. The sheets beside her were cold, untouched. She stared at the window, watching the curtains drift gently in the early morning breeze.

She slipped out of bed, her feet sinking into the warmth of the carpet. Pulling the curtain aside, Gwyneth spotted Hawthorne Everhart sitting on a chair out on the balcony. With the light behind him, most of his face was lost in shadow, his profile sharp and somber, every line etched with a distant coldness.

A cigarette glowed between his fingers, its ember flaring and fading in the night air. A chill ran through Gwyneth, sharper and more unsettling than the first time she'd met him.

"Hawthorne?"

She rarely called him by name. Her voice broke his reverie, and he turned, expression unreadable, his eyes as distant as ever.

"You're awake? It's so late."

He frowned, quickly snuffing out the cigarette-he didn't want her to catch the scent; he knew it wasn't good for her. It was still the middle of the night. Usually, Gwyneth would sleep straight through until morning.

But without Hawthorne beside her, she never slept deeply, no matter how exhausted she was.

"Did you never sleep, or did you get up?"

Hawthorne reached out, wrapping her in his arms and pulling his coat around her shoulders, shielding her from the chill.

"I saw you were asleep, so I got up to deal with a few things for work. Did I wake you?"

He remembered getting up quietly, certain he hadn't made a sound. Gwyneth didn't mention that she couldn't sleep simply because he wasn't there.

woke up and

explain the vague anxiety

held her tighter. "Silly, I'm right

that, Hawthorne scooped her up. "Let's go back in. It's

and she'd fall ill. It had happened just like this not long

"Okay."

letting

fabric of his shirt, her heart

crept in, just like when McNeil Langford had been suddenly declared beyond saving all

of this. After he set her down on the table,

back to sleep

at his shirt, her voice soft,

"Of course."

the covers, gathering her into his arms as if

the faint scent

last, her restless

the first light

nel

eyes, half expecting. Hawthorne to be gone again. But before she could move,

"Morning-"