The Perfect Wife's Perfect Revenge novel Chapter 215

The hospital room had been heavy with gloom, but suddenly, Osborn sprang up from his sickbed, his eyes shining.

"Really?"

Victoria had actually knitted him a scarf with her own hands. Was this his lucky day at last?

All his earlier complaints vanished in a flash. After Victoria spent a few minutes humoring him, she handed the scarf over to Yasmine, giving her clear instructions: make sure to tell Osborn the scarf was handmade by Victoria, and, if possible, try to bring back a photo of him wearing it.

Yasmine shot Victoria a long, meaningful look—her boss was finally starting to open her heart and let someone else in.

Carrying out her mission, Yasmine delivered the scarf to Osborn. Watching this tall, handsome man grinning like a fool as he cradled the scarf, Yasmine couldn't help but feel a pang of envy.

Especially when she added, "Mr. Clark, Ms. Turner insisted I get a picture of you wearing it. Would you mind striking a pose for her?"

Osborn's smile nearly split his face. "Why just try it on? I'm wearing it, and I'm not taking it off. You don't have to take the picture—I'll do it myself. Just help me decide which pose looks best."

Despite insisting he didn't need her help, he handed Yasmine his phone and proceeded to try every flamboyant pose he could think of. Yasmine figured she must have taken at least a hundred shots before her arms gave out.

"All right, Mr. Clark, I need to get back to Ms. Turner and let her know I delivered it. If you want more photos, you're on your own."

She'd had enough—half an hour of this was more than enough.

Osborn asked Yasmine what Victoria was up to, but Yasmine just made up an excuse and left.

By lunchtime, when Lyndon and the others came to check on him, Osborn was already clamoring to be discharged early. Lyndon gave him a once-over and immediately noticed the bright blue scarf standing out against Osborn's otherwise sharp, grey tailored suit. The color clashed terribly, but Osborn was beaming like an idiot. Lyndon started to wonder if the myocarditis had affected his brain.

"Nice scarf, huh?" Osborn asked, showing it off to anyone who'd look.

Slater and York exchanged baffled glances. "It's… fine, I guess."

"What do you mean, ‘fine'? It looks great—matches me perfectly," Osborn insisted, all puffed up.

Lyndon, meanwhile, was busy handling the discharge paperwork and barely spared him a glance.

"Lyndon, any idea who gave it to me?" Osborn teased, milking the moment for all it was worth.

Lyndon's face remained impassive; he had no interest in playing along.

Once the paperwork was done, he returned to help Osborn pack up his things. Osborn was still showing off his scarf like it was a trophy.

Lyndon muttered a single, cold word. "Tacky."