The Perfect Wife's Perfect Revenge novel Chapter 12

The wall clock struck midnight, its chimes echoing through the empty house. He’d been on his feet all day, exhausted to the bone, and could have just crashed on the couch at work. But the thought of his wife waiting at home drove him out into the bitter, wintry night, forcing his way back here even as the world slept.

“I need to thank you,” he said quietly, his voice rough with fatigue. “Not just with words. Victoria—thank you.”

Thinking of Violet’s successful surgery, the tension in his chest finally loosened, just a little. His Victoria—always in his corner, always thinking of him first.

“You mean you want to thank me because I saved your old flame?” Victoria’s laugh was sharp and cold, laced with a bitterness she didn’t bother to hide.

For the past two weeks, she’d called him who knows how many times, searched for him, begged for even a glance—and he hadn’t come home, not even once.

But now, moved by guilt for his childhood sweetheart, he’d finally remembered her existence—and wanted to repay her with his body, as if that was some grand gesture.

“I mean it,” McNeil insisted, his tone earnest. “I’ve already sent your wedding dress in for repairs. It should be back in ten days.”

His words twisted in her chest, hurting her more than she cared to admit.

“Well, I suppose I should thank you, Mr. Langford.”

Victoria turned away, her eyes—once so full of love—now empty, stripped of the tenderness they used to hold.

She paused at the third step on the staircase, her dark hair catching the hallway light as she glanced over her shoulder, her movement as fluid as drifting clouds.

“Oh, and I almost forgot,” she added, her voice icy. “You don’t really need to thank me. Violet’s life was saved in exchange for fifty percent of The Langford Group’s shares.”

She brushed away a stray tear from the corner of her eye, her lips twisting into a cold, merciless smile. She ignored the storm raging in his eyes—the kind of anger that could tear the world apart.

“You’ve seen the divorce papers. Find some time to sign them.”

McNeil stood frozen in the middle of the living room, his body gone numb. It never crossed his mind that Victoria—who never cared about profit or loss, who only ever wanted to grow old with him—could turn into someone so calculating.

He swore he could hear something inside him shatter, the pain seizing his heart in the silence of the night.

Victoria—

“Miss Gwyneth, there’s a phone call for you. I think it’s your mother.”

The housekeeper emphasized the last word, but Gwyneth didn’t even look up.

“What does she want? Dad just got back and left Ms. Marchand here all alone. I bet Mom’s picking a fight with Dad again.”

She resumed folding, her voice flat. “I have to finish these wishing stars for Ms. Marchand. The seller said if I fold ten thousand of them, she’ll get better.”

The housekeeper understood—Miss Gwyneth simply didn’t want to talk. She couldn’t blame her.

Victoria waited, forcing herself to be patient as the minutes crawled by. Finally, after over ten minutes, someone picked up the phone on the other end.

“Gwyn—” she began.

“Sorry, Mrs. Langford. Miss Gwyneth doesn’t want to speak to you. It’s probably best if you don’t call again.”