The Perfect Wife's Perfect Revenge

These past few days, Hawthorne had been spending a lot of time with Gwyneth. She wasn't much of a talker, but when she did speak, she rarely stopped once she started.

After that phone call and boarding the plane, however, Gwyneth fell completely silent. She sat there quietly, as still and beautiful as a marble statue.

Hawthorne kept her company, occasionally searching for the right words to comfort her. Yet each time he was about to speak, the words caught in his throat and never made it out.

The Everhart family had built their legacy over a century, through the sweat and toil of generations. Now, all of that was a hair's breadth away from ruin at the hands of the Langfords.

Gwyneth was McNeil's daughter, and today she was on her way to see the Langford family's ailing patriarch. Given the bitter history between their families, Hawthorne supposed he should've been glad.

After all, McNeil was Thorpe's grandson. If Thorpe hadn't started everything, there would be no McNeil-and the Everharts wouldn't have nearly been wiped out a

few years ago.

Gwyneth sat in silence, occasionally wiping away a tear with the back of her hand when she thought no one was looking.

Her great-grandfather had always been good to her, to Celia, to Chris. She still remembered the childhood visits to his house, running wild with her cousins. There was one time she'd knocked over his antique vase. The porcelain had shattered across the floor and even the housekeepers looked stricken at the sight.

She'd been certain her great-grandfather would be furious. She'd overheard the staff say how much he loved that vase, how he polished it every morning with a soft cloth.noveldrama

But he cherished it not for its beauty, but because he'd bought it in his youth to win over her great-grandmother's heart. The vase was a token of his love and longing for the wife he'd lost.

When Gwyneth broke it, her great-grandfather merely patted her head, smiled, and told the staff to clean it up. No anger, no harsh words.

She'd heard he'd later spent a small fortune trying to have it restored by some expert, but she never saw the vase again. Some of the staff said they'd seen him standing in front of the empty pedestal in the mornings, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief.

Gwyneth stared blankly as the plane climbed higher, her thoughts scattered in a thousand directions amid the endless sea of clouds outside.

But through it all, one conviction

kept her anchored: if she could,

novi

she'd gladly give up years of her own life in exchange for her

great-grandfather's health and long life. sŵnovel

What was the point of her existence anyway? All she'd ever done was trouble her family-her father might never wake again, her mother was heartbroken because of her. What good had she brought anyone? Sometimes it felt like she was nothing but a burden-a mistake.

If her life could buy her family's health, she'd do it. If she could trade her days for

her father opening his eyes again, she'd do it in a heartbeat.

She was useless, worthless.

The more she thought, the deeper she sank into guilt and self-reproach. Sadness pressed in on her from all sides, suffocating and inescapable.

"We still have a few hours until we land. Rest your head on me and try to get some sleep."

A strong arm slipped around her shoulders, pulling her close. Hawthorne's other hand gently guided her head to his shoulder.

Suddenly, the chaos in her mind settled, and her emotions shifted strangely.

She wasn't used to being cared for like this, Or maybe it was just

Hawthorne's sudden tenderne

that left her flustered and unsure, her heart tripping over itself.

Bill Crawford had put his arm around her before, but it had never made her feel anything special.

With Hawthorne, she felt awkward and uncertain. She tried to sit up and put a little distance between them, but he wouldn't let her move away.

"If you really feel that bad, just cry. It's okay. Old folks go to the hospital all the time—it doesn't always mean it's the end of the world."

His words, meant to comfort, almost made Gwyneth laugh through her tears. Was

this supposed to be reassuring? It sounded more like he was rubbing salt into her wounds.