The Perfect Wife's Perfect Revenge novel Chapter 712

Gwyneth buried her face in Hawthorne's chest, her cries raw and desperate.

He held her tighter, his own heart aching with a helplessness he couldn't shake.

He didn't know how to ease her pain; all he could do was hold on.

She clung to his arm, sobbing like a lost child, and the umbrella slipped from his grasp.

They stood there together, drenched in the downpour.

"My Gwyn is good," he whispered into her hair. "None of this has anything to do with you. Please, stop blaming yourself for everything. It's not your burden to carry. It hurts me to see you like this."

He held her close, murmuring words of comfort, until she choked on a mouthful of rainwater and began to cough violently.

The sudden realization that they'd been standing in the storm for far too long spurred him into action.

He swept her into his arms and carried her back toward the car.

Hans was waiting for them, and upon seeing Mr. and Mrs. Everhart soaked to the skin, he quickly got out with an umbrella to shield them.

"Home," Hawthorne commanded, his voice strained.

Gwyneth was limp in his arms, a broken doll with all her strength drained away.

Her eyes were vacant, staring into nothingness.

Hawthorne held her tightly the entire ride back, her body growing colder by the minute until she was completely numb.

When they arrived at the villa, Butler Parham gasped at the sight of them and immediately instructed the staff to prepare some hot ginger tea.

Hawthorne carried Gwyneth upstairs, went straight to the bathroom to draw a hot bath, and then gently removed her wet clothes.

Her skin was a stark, cold white, almost luminous in the dim light.

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