The Perfect Wife's Perfect Revenge

"The light's green. You can go."

It took Gwyneth a moment to snap out of her daze, her ears already filled with a chorus of impatient car horns.noveldrama

Flushed scarlet, she stomped on the gas. The sports car roared to life and shot forward.

For the rest of the drive, Hawthorne tried talking to her, but Gwyneth barely seemed to hear him. She drove on autopilot, muscle memory guiding her hands while her mind drifted somewhere far away.

Hawthorne glanced over at her lips—still red and swollen from his kiss—and a flicker of regret crossed his face.

"I was a little rough just now. Sorry about that."

Gwyneth didn't really catch what he said, but murmured an absent-minded "Mm- hmm" anyway.

He went on, "Next time I kiss you, I'll be gentler. And if you ever feel uncomfortable, you have to tell me."

Letting the cool evening breeze from the window wash over her face, Gwyneth tried to will away the heat in her cheeks. She didn't dare risk another glance at Hawthorne.

The old family house wasn't far from the villa his grandfather had gifted him. Fifteen minutes later, the car pulled up in front of a stately old manor. The grand oak doors gleamed with fresh paint, and inside, the place was a maze of elegant walkways, manicured gardens, and a sparkling pond. It looked like a miniature version of Hawthorne's estate in Greenvale.

Both of them paused for a moment, surprised by the sight of such a European- style villa here.

Hawthorne spoke softly, "Great-Grandfather really was a man of detail."

But if he'd bought this property years ago...well, that made things even more interesting.

Gwyneth didn't comment. As she stepped inside, she noticed the way everything was arranged—almost identical to Hawthorne's own place, right down to the décor.

They'd spent a long time at the old house; by the time they arrived here, the sun had set completely.

Hawthorne led the way to the dining room, moving around as if he'd lived here for years. He brewed a pot of tea for her.

"Hungry?" he asked. "I can make us something to eat."

Right on cue, Gwyneth's stomach growled. She remembered barely touching her lunch at the French

bistro earlier-too nervous about

their first meal alone together to eat much. Now she was starving, but felt a little embarrassed to admit it. Cóntent

"You can cook?" she blurted, unable to hide her surprise. He didn't look like someone who belonged in a kitchen.

Hawthorne slipped off his jacket, hung it neatly, and rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt. His watch stayed on, glinting at his wrist.

From her seat at the kitchen island, Gwyneth could see him prepping ingredients, with a sleek black chef's knife. The muscles in his forearm? flexed with each movement, and his open collar revealed a hint of his chest.

What kind of man looked this good just making dinner?

She couldn't help but steal a few glances while sipping her tea, sneaking peeks whenever she thought he wasn't looking.

His plating was brisk and precise; the cold appetizers and salad he assembled looked like works of art.

He set a cup of coffee-decorated with delicate latte art—on the counter, then brought it over to her.

"Try it," he said.

In Starfall City's upper circles, people preferred fancy European

cuisine-flashy restaurants, trendy dishes, Greenvale folks were different; they liked nothing better than to spend an afternoon lounging in a cozy café, sipping tea, listening to music, no need for formal dress

or forced conversation.

Hawthorne had adapted to the local habits-especially when it came to Gwyneth's tastes.

The dishes on the island were all seafood, just the way she liked. She guessed

his grandfather had stocked the fridge earlier, giving Hawthorne the perfect excuse to show off his cooking skills.

Gwyneth finally tore her eyes from his chest and focused on the coffee in front of her. She'd imagined plenty of scenarios on the drive over, but nothing quite like

this.

Whether the coffee tasted good or not didn't even matter anymore.