The Perfect Wife's Perfect Revenge novel Chapter 558

Hawthorne brought her a glass of milk. Gwyneth set her phone aside, eyes still wary.

“Relax, I’m not here to gloat,” he said, voice steady but not unkind. “If you miss home so much, why don’t you just go back?”

For someone who seemed so much more mature than Leonie, Gwyneth was strangely hesitant when it came to her family.

She looked away, blinking hard, like a little girl whose secret had just been discovered. Her eyes reddened almost instantly.

“No one ever told you it’s rude to eavesdrop?” she snapped, mustering as much indignation as she could. She sounded more flustered than angry, like a kitten trying to bare its claws—full of bravado, but harmless in the end.

The embarrassment quickly outweighed her irritation. The words were barely out of her mouth before she regretted them.

If it hadn’t been for Hawthorne yesterday, she’d probably have ended up alone with Bill Crawford—

“I’m sorry,” Gwyneth blurted out, her voice softer now. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. And… thank you. For yesterday.”

She watched as Hawthorne stepped inside, set the glass of milk down, and for a moment, she was at a loss for words.

Wasn’t someone like Hawthorne supposed to be above these small acts of kindness? Yet here he was, bringing her milk, and she found herself oddly touched by it.

Was it too late to thank him properly now?

Hawthorne’s voice was low and rich—smooth as aged wine. Gwyneth’s apology was sincere, but she hadn’t expected him to tease her in return, leaving her momentarily speechless.

Thankfully, he let it go after that, not pressing her any further.

Gwyneth stood there, fiddling with the hem of her sweater, eyes darting away. She looked every bit the little girl caught doing something wrong.

Suddenly, Hawthorne reached out. She tensed, uncertain of his intention—until he gently tucked a stray lock of her hair behind her ear.

She opened her mouth to respond, but whatever she wanted to say never made it out.

Hawthorne didn’t push. Instead, his gaze shifted to the milk. “Drink up and get some rest. No need to go into the office for the next few days.”

He paused, fixing her with a steady look. “I’ll handle Miss Yvette. You don’t need to worry about it.”

With that, he left, not lingering for any further conversation.

Gwyneth lifted the glass. The milk was pleasantly warm—neither too hot nor too cold. She took a careful sip; it was perfect.

As she finished the glass, her eyes stung and her cheeks flushed with unexpected warmth.

Aside from her family—her dad, mom, aunt, and grandmother—the Everharts were the first people outside her own blood who had ever shown her such kindness.