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.

After he finally managed to get her to finish the cup, Gwyneth's eyes fluttered closed, and she seemed to drift off to sleep.

He drew the curtains, leaving only a single, soft lamp on by the bedside, casting a warm, amber glow across the room.

Despite his efforts, that night, Gwyneth developed a high fever.

She tossed and turned, crying out in her sleep, her nightmares pulling her into a restless torment.

Hawthorne stayed by her side, constantly dipping a towel in cool water and placing it on her forehead.

Whenever she grew agitated, he would pull her into his arms, stroking her back and murmuring soothing words as if calming a frightened child.

Her condition fluctuated throughout the night, and Hawthorne never closed his eyes.

During the rare moments she was calm, he would step out onto the balcony for a cigarette, but the slightest sound from the room would have him extinguishing it and rushing back to her side.