The Perfect Wife's Perfect Revenge novel 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.

Hawthorne’s eyes darkened, his gaze lingering as he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing reflexively.

Gwyneth caught the look in his eyes, but she wasn’t in the mood for this.

“What’s going on with Patti Yale?” she asked, her tone flat.

She vaguely remembered asking him this same question last night, but she couldn’t recall what answer he’d given her. Too much alcohol had wiped the details away, leaving only a handful of indistinct scenes.

“Gwyn, she’s just someone I used to know. That’s all. There’s nothing between us. Can we please leave this behind us, and never bring it up again?”

Gwyneth remembered her mother’s ex-husband saying almost those exact words to Victoria, her mother. The memory stung. Inside her mind, two voices were at war—one wanting to believe him, the other refusing.

He knew now was not the time to argue.

“Gwyn, give me some time. I promise I’ll give you an answer you can accept. I have my reasons.”

Those were almost the same words McNeil had once said to Victoria, and now Hawthorne finally understood the helplessness his mother had felt.

At least he wasn’t trapped like she had been; his life wasn’t patched together with nothing but hope and old regrets. He still had choices.

“Are you about to tell me he once saved your life, and this is all just you paying him back?”