The Perfect Wife's Perfect Revenge novel Chapter 617

Gwyneth was loving the rush, tearing down the road, when suddenly a black McLaren slipped out in front of her. Thankfully, the other driver was only inching along. Just before the two cars would have collided, Gwyneth whipped her steering wheel, sending her car skidding several dozen yards away in a flawless drift before coming to a stop.

The whole maneuver was so smooth it looked choreographed, but Leonie was nearly scared out of her wits. The McLaren’s driver was already swinging his door open.

He stepped out in a black silk shirt, dark tailored slacks, and polished shoes. His features were sharply defined, and a pair of black-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. Even through the windshield, Gwyneth could feel his irritation radiating toward her.

Her heart pounded with guilt. If she hadn’t reacted so fast, or if he hadn’t been driving so slowly, they’d both be lucky to escape a major crash.

“Did you hit him?” Leonie finally found her voice, realizing she’d just cheated death. Her legs felt like jelly.

Gwyneth stayed silent as the man strode over and rapped on their window. She forced herself to stay calm, rolling it down halfway and even flashing him a smile for good measure.

“What the hell were you thinking? Trying to get yourself killed—” The man’s words died in his throat the instant he yanked off his glasses and got a look at Gwyneth’s face, as if someone had doused him with a bucket of ice water.

“I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to,” Gwyneth said, her voice as gentle and sweet as she could muster—which to him, probably sounded like she was trying to charm her way out of trouble.

“Sir, we really didn’t mean it,” Leonie chimed in, giving her best impression of a helpless damsel. “We just got our licenses and aren’t used to the car yet. Please, can you let us off this time?”

The man spoke up, “My name’s Connor Kaufman.”

Gwyneth blinked in surprise, while Leonie quickly reached out, “Connor, can we go now?”

Connor… why did that name sound so familiar? Leonie wondered, even as Connor stubbed out his cigarette and an amused, almost wicked smile tugged at his lips.

“Fresh license, huh? That explains a lot. Still—” Connor glanced back at his car. In trying to avoid Gwyneth, his McLaren’s hood was crumpled, smoke curling out from under it.

No need to guess—the car was most likely totaled.

Gwyneth realized just how much trouble she was in. Even at a glance, she could tell his car was destined for the repair shop, if not the scrap yard.

She pulled out her phone. “How about you give me your contact info? I’ll cover the repair costs.”

That McLaren was the latest model, worth at least three million dollars new. Even with depreciation, the loss was easily over a million. There was no way she could walk away from this without paying.

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