The Perfect Wife's Perfect Revenge

"Go take a shower before bed."

A shower?

Just those words alone made Gwyneth's cheeks flush hot. Before she could answer, Hawthorne had already scooped her up in his arms and was carrying her straight to the bathroom. He set her down gently, making sure everything she might need-towel, slippers, and a robe-were neatly arranged for her.

"There are pajamas in the wardrobe. I'll grab a set for you," he said, closing the door quietly behind him. The suite fell into a stillness.

Blushing furiously, Gwyneth turned on the shower. Her heart was pounding so loud she could hardly hear the water.

After showering, she found pajamas waiting just outside the door. She changed at record speed, then peeked into the bedroom. Hawthorne was already in bed, reading a financial magazine, flipping through the pages with his long fingers.

At some point, he'd put on a pair of gold-rimmed glasses, and the way the lamp lit up his sharp profile was almost unfairly attractive.

Gwyneth froze for a moment, then obediently walked over.

"All done?" he asked, his expression calm as ever. He set aside his magazine and lifted the covers, inviting her in.

She hesitated, not quite sure what to do, but eventually slipped under the blankets beside him.

Hawthorne took off his glasses, switched off the light, and the room was plunged into darkness. As her eyes adjusted, Gwyneth felt him settle down next to her and, without a word, wrap his arms around her.

He smelled faintly of soap and something uniquely him-clean, warm, and comforting.

"Get some sleep," he said softly.

He made no further moves, just held her quietly.

It was the first time Gwyneth had ever shared a bed with a man she barely knew. Surrounded by his scent and the subtle strength of his embrace, she had no idea what she was supposed to do next. If O Hawthorne wanted more, should she go along with it?

Five minutes passed. Then fifteen. Her anxiety gradually lost out to exhaustion, and eventually, she drifted off, her nerves soothed by the steady sound of his breathing.

That night, Gwyneth slept deeper than she had in years. All her usual nightmares were gone, replaced by a dream where someone held her hand and made her feel utterly safe.

She woke at dawn to the sound of birds singing outside the window, only to find herself face-to-face with Hawthorne's striking features. Startled, she nearly tumbled off the bed.noveldrama

She'd forgotten she'd spent the night with him. Thankfully, Hawthorne still had his arm around her, or she might have landed squarely on the floor.

Gwyneth pressed a hand to her mouth, her gaze tracing the sharp lines of his face and the dark lashes fluttering against his cheek. Even asleep his lips were set in a firma, tempting line-she realized, with a jolt, that men could be just as dangerously beautiful as women.

Feeling thoroughly awkward, she tried to turn over, but her knee bumped into something she really shouldn't have. Hawthorne's brow furrowed in pain, and Gwyneth froze, her ears turning crimson as she squeezed her eyes shut.

Oh God, did she just-? And was that—?

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It was just a normal reaction, she told herself desperately. Men couldn't help it. Sure enough, Hawthorne stirred, glanced at her and, seeing that her eyes were still shut tight, gently slid his arm free. He carefully pulled the blanket up over her waist before heading into the bathroom.

She heard the shower turn on, along with the unmistakable sounds of a man dealing with—well, morning business. Mortified, Gwyneth clamped her eyes shut even tighter, determined not to think about it.

By the time she got out of bed, it was past nine.

The morning sunlight poured into the courtyard. Hawthorne was in the kitchen, making a simple breakfast for the two of them. After they ate, he led her for a stroll around the garden.

Sure enough, this place really did feel like a cozier version of Hawthorne's Greenvale estate. As they walked, Gwyneth smiled and muttered, "Feels just like home with you."