The Perfect Wife's Perfect Revenge

"Thank you."

Out of sheer politeness, Gwyneth Langford managed to murmur her thanks.

Hawthorne Everhart climbed into the driver's seat, hands steady on the wheel as he turned toward his own house.

"You don't need to head to the office this afternoon," he said. "I'll show you around so you can get your bearings."

Gwyneth rolled her eyes inwardly. Did he really think she needed a tour of his house? What was it going to be, a couple thousand square feet, maybe a three- story place at most?

But when the car pulled up to Hawthorne's front gates, and she saw the towering iron doors and high stone walls encircling the estate, Gwyneth's jaw all but dropped.

This was nothing like what she'd imagined. In fact, it was so far from her expectations it might as well have been on another planet.

The driveway was paved with old flagstones, their surfaces worn smooth by years of footsteps. On either side, willow trees swayed gently in the early spring breeze, their new leaves shimmering. Two massive stone lions stood sentinel at the gate, jaws clamped around carved orbs. The iron doors themselves were set with dragon-shaped knockers, their patina hinting at decades, maybe centuries, of history.

Even her grandfather's house back in Starfall City paled in comparison to this. Just the grandeur of the entrance made her want to stand up a little straighter.

"This is your home?"

Letting her stay here, even temporarily, seemed absurdly generous. She'd thought her own uncle's mansion in Evermore City was impressive, but this-this was the sort of estate you'd expect to find in the heart of an ancient European capital, not tucked away in a modern city.

"It is. Technically, it's the family estate."

Sixteen generations, passed down until it landed in his hands. He'd once planned to donate it as a historic site, but after a few too many run-ins with disrespectful tourists, he'd decided to take it back and live in it himself.

They stopped before the gates, and almost at once, the heavy iron doors swung open.

Gwyneth noticed a faint red light blinking above her head-a security camera. The place might look like something out of another era, but security was clearly up to twenty-first-century standards.

"Mr. Everhart, you've returned?"

The butler appeared in the entryway, surprise flickering across his face as he took in Hawthorne and the young woman beside him.

Maybe it was the timing. Maybe it was Gwyneth herself. But she couldn't shake the feeling that she didn't belong here at all.

"Yes," Hawthorne replied.

The butler's gaze shifted to the suitcase at Hawthorne's side, then to Gwyneth, who-dressed plainly and looking fresh out of college-felt suddenly self- conscious. The butler said nothing, but the silence was loaded.

"Um, it's not what you think," Gwyneth stammered. "There's nothing going on between us. I'm just... here for a while, that's all."

Hawthorne shot her a look. The butler, face expressionless, turned and started walking ahead, keeping a measured distance. Gwyneth couldn't hold back.

"I'm an adult, you know. Sir."

Hawthorne's knuckles tightened on the handle of her suitcase. The butler's face twisted into something that looked like a grimace. "Noted, Mr. Everhart. If there's nothing else, I'll get back to work."

He strode off, making no secret of his dislike for Gwyneth.

"Adkins isn't even fifty," Hawthorne said in a low voice. "You can just call him Adkins."

Gwyneth was thrown. With his stern face and solemn demeanor, Adkins looked like he belonged in a Dickens novel, not like someone who hadn't even hit middle age.

The way he'd looked at her... like she was some runaway teenager. It made her bristle.

"Okay," she muttered. What was that look for, anyway?

She followed Hawthorne inside, and

the moment she crossed the

threshold, she felt as if she'd stepped back in time. The corridors, the courtyards, the carved balustrades-everything exuded an old world charm. If she put on a period dress, she could almost believe she'd wandered into a 19th-century manor.

Every pillar and beam radiated age and craftsmanship; these weren't things

money alone could buy. The history was palpable.

On the second floor, a painting caught her eye-a subtle, flowing monochrome landscape. She paused, recognizing the seal in the corner. For a moment, her heart skipped.

"What is it?" Hawthorne noticed her hesitation and stopped as well.

"Nothing," Gwyneth said, too quickly.

To her surprise, Hawthorne had a painting by her grandmother. And not tucked away in some forgotten corner, but hanging here, front and center.

She remembered: her mother's life had revolved around two things—raising her three children and scouring the world for her mother's lost treasures. Some had been jade, others, paintings.

Her grandmother had been a woman of remarkable talent, a true lady of her generation-music, calligraphy, painting-she'd

mastered them all. One of her netnoveldrama

calligraphic scrolls was even in the Starfall City Museum. Of course, Victoria Turner would never dream of asking for it back; it was a point of pride for the Turner family, a gift to the nation.

Hawthorne glanced at the painting Gwyneth was staring at. "My grandfather's old friend gave it to him," he said quietly. "Apparently, it was painted by the woman he loved

most, but they couldn't be together, and he couldn't keep it, so he passed it on, asking my grandfather to preserve it for him."

Gwyneth's mind buzzed, and she forced herself to look away.

Family heirlooms were always complicated-twists and turns, lost and found. Getting this one back would not be easy.

"It's a beautiful piece."

Her smile was a little too bright, too eager-like she was already plotting how to make it hers.

Hawthorne frowned. The Langford family was wealthy beyond measure; surely they weren't short a painting. Or maybe she just genuinely liked it.

"You're into watercolors?" he asked.

Gwyneth hedged. "I've studied a bit. I wouldn't say I'm passionate."

She wondered if she could sneak back tonight and quietly take it down.

"There are cameras everywhere," Hawthorne remarked, as if reading her mind. "Except in the bedrooms. You'll be perfectly safe."

Gwyneth shot him a look. Was he psychic, or just alarmingly perceptive?

"...Right."