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.

I just woke up and didn't

explain the vague anxiety gnawing

tighter. "Silly, I'm right here, aren't

"Let's go back in. It's cold out here,

fragile-every little shift in temperature, and she'd fall ill. It had happened just like this

"Okay."

nodded obediently, letting

fingers clung to the fabric of his

like when McNeil Langford had been suddenly declared beyond saving all those years@go. She was terrified of` losing anyone she cared for, afraid they'd vanish

pain of separation again. She'd never told Hawthorne any of this. After he set her

back to

at his shirt, her voice soft, almost pleading.

"Of course."

into his arms as if she

the faint scent of cedar and musk -Hawthorne's unmistakable

waist tightly, and at last, her restless heart settled.

light of

nel

Gwyneth opened her eyes, half expecting. Hawthorne to be gone again. But

"Morning-"