The Perfect Wife's Perfect Revenge

She lay draped across McNeil's unmoving body, unable to calm the storm inside her. Her throat was raw from crying, yet McNeil didn't stir-he might as well have been a statue. It wasn't until a strong hand settled on her shoulder and Hawthorne's calm, deep voice cut through the silence that she managed to stir.

"That's enough. You're making a racket."

Tears still streaked Gwyneth's cheeks as she turned to him, disbelief written all over her face.

"Your father's just unconscious. There's no need to act as if you're at a funeral. Do you know how many people never get to see the ones they love again? Parents, children, partners-most never get the chance."

She pushed his hand away, staring at him like he'd suddenly grown a second head. Sure, she knew Hawthorne was reserved and aloof, but she'd never imagined he could be this cold.

"What's your point?" she snapped, her anger flaring. Was he just here for the show?

No wonder he was pushing forty and still single-

Hawthorne pinched her chin lightly and put some distance between them. "I can hear what you're thinking, you know. If you've got time to grieve, maybe use it to figure out how to help him."

He nodded towards McNeil. The mention was enough to pull Gwyneth's attention back to her father, and somehow, the intensity of her sorrow eased. She managed to choke back her tears.

"You think we haven't tried? For over a decade, Mom and Grandpa have searched the whole world for the best doctors—anyone who might bring Dad back. It's always the same answer."

One failed attempt is enough to keep hope alive, but after countless tries over the years, always ending the same way, even the doctors said a miracle just wasn't in the cards. If he was ever going to wake up, it would have to be an act of God.

Act of God. As if anyone in their family even believed in that. Telling them to rely on fate was basically telling them to give up. Right now, aside from breathing, McNeil was no different from the dead.

Nobody dared to tell Victoria to let go, and the Langford family certainly had no shortage of money. It was as if everyone silently agreed to keep McNeil alive, to pretend these years were nothing but a bad dream.

But-

There was no hope.

"Success is built on endless failures. As long as he's alive, there's some hope. If you really want to give up, just pull the plug," Hawthorne said quietly.

Gwyneth finally wiped the tears from her face.

She tucked McNeil's hand back under the blanket, her heart steadier now.

"Mr. Everhart, do you have any advice?" she asked, her tone dry.

Pull the plug? Trust him to come up with the most heartless suggestion. She wondered how on earth the Everhart Group had gotten so far with him at the helm.

Maybe the family picked the wrong heir.

"Advice?" Hawthorne echoed, raising an eyebrow. Gwyneth bristled, hands balling into tiny fists.

"You said not to give up hope. Surely you know some miracle worker doctor or someone who can help."

She was getting good at turning his own words against him, and Hawthorne almost looked amused-almost.

"No," he replied simply. "By the way, isn't your grandfather and mother waiting for us to get back for dinner?"

Gwyneth nearly choked on pure exasperation-"mother"?! Who even talked like that anymore? Leave it to Hawthorne, the epitome of old money, to use terms straigh@out of a Victorian novel.

With a final glance at McNeil, she grabbed her purse and hurried after Hawthorne.

A car waited for them at the hospital entrance. Gwyneth spotted her grandfather's driver-he must

been parked out front thisthel.nenoveldrama

time.

whole

The driver offered his hand, and it took her a second to realize he meant for her to place her hand in his palm. She hesitated, startled.

Was this―

Hawthorne didn't move, simply held the gesture. Without thinking, Gwyneth slipped her hand into his.