The Perfect Wife's Perfect Revenge novel Chapter 687

Gwyneth sat beneath the porch eaves, listening to the rain. A small side table stood nearby, holding a steaming kettle, its old-fashioned spout hissing with the sound of boiling water.

Beside her rested an easel. In the misty drizzle of the southern countryside, she moved her brush in sweeping strokes, capturing the blurred, rain-soaked landscape in the distance.

Gradually, beneath her hand, the paper revealed a breathtaking scene—a portrait of the rain’s gentle melancholy.

When the painting reached a pause, she pulled the coals from beneath the kettle, and the soft bubbling faded away.

Every so often, she picked up her phone to check her messages. One after another, Hawthorne’s texts appeared. She read each in turn, deleting them as soon as she finished, until not a single one remained.

Gwyneth took a sip of tea and returned to her painting, her focus so complete it seemed as if nothing could disturb her calm.

But as the rising steam and rain came alive on the page, her interest suddenly vanished.

She set aside the half-finished painting and reached for her carving tools, carefully working on a new stamp. Yet no matter how she tried to distract herself, Hawthorne’s face lingered in her mind, impossible to banish.

Evening crept in, rain-laced wind slipping through the windows and bringing a damp chill. She cooked a simple supper—a couple of small dishes—and settled by the window for a quiet drink.

The whiskey she’d picked up from the old family-run shop at the street corner burned its way down her throat, sharp and unforgiving.

She’d barely swallowed a mouthful before it made her cough. Staring out at the rain-drenched world, Gwyneth felt a loneliness unlike anything she’d ever known.

Coming here again, without Hawthorne, had only cost her a little romance—or so she’d thought. In her heart, she’d expected peace.

That was why she’d chosen Greenvale in the first place. For a mistake she’d made in her youth, she intended to spend a lifetime making amends.

With Hawthorne, she’d meant every word. She’d never loved anyone the way she loved him, but perhaps that sudden tenderness was exactly what had made her lose herself.

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