The Perfect Wife's Perfect Revenge

Chapter 682

Gwyneth woke up with a splitting headache, the kind that made her regret every drink from the night before. As she cracked open her eyes, she heard the steady rush of water from the bathroom.

She could barely remember what had happened last night-her memories were a blur, all sharp edges and missing pieces. She seemed to recall her father bringing her home, but then, somehow, Hawthorne had appeared. Everything else was a swirl of half-remembered dreams and restless tossing.

She had no idea when Hawthorne had come home. Groggy and disoriented, Gwyneth pushed herself to sit up just as Hawthorne stepped out of the bathroom. His short, dark hair was dripping wet, and he wore nothing but a robe loosely cinched at the waist. He looked effortlessly magnetic, his presence filling the

room.

"Finally awake, Mrs. Everhart," he said, crossing over to her. He reached out, intending to ruffle her hair in that familiar way of his. Instinctively, Gwyneth turned her face away, dodging his hand.

His arm froze midair, the gesture hanging awkwardly between them.

But Hawthorne's patience seemed endless. He simply straightened, crossed to the window, and drew back the curtains. Morning sunlight poured into the room, flooding everything with gold.

Gwyneth was bathed in the soft light, her nightdress slipping off one shoulder to reveal skin so pale it seemed to glow.

eyes darkened, his gaze lingering as he swallowed, his Adam's

caught the look in his eyes, but she wasn't in the mood

with Patti Yale?" she asked, her tone

what answer he'd given her. Too

all. There's nothing between us.

almost those exact words to Victoria, her mother. The memory stung. Inside her

another lie. I've already

at her, caught off guard. After a moment, he looked at her with gentle patience. "Next week is

else in your heart, why can't you just admit it? You didn't have to marry me out of

Know?net

wounded her deeply, deeper than she wanted to admit. Hawthorne, had once made her believe she could leave her pain behind that maybe she could heal. But nothing hurts quite like heartbreak. If Hawthorne had been

sat down quietly in front of her and gently tucked a stray strand

marry you out of pity. I married you because I wanted

a thin, bitter smile. "And Patti Yale? Did you want her, too? Hawthorne, you only get one heart. You can't

now was not the