The Perfect Wife's Perfect Revenge novel Chapter 324

She brought McNeil a late-night snack, and just as she was about to leave, he suddenly called her back.

“Have you fallen for someone lately?”

“…What?”

Xenia nearly jumped. How could McNeil possibly know about that?

He seemed to answer his own question, rubbing his brow in irritation. “Never mind. Go get some sleep.”

He stubbed out his cigarette, but just then his phone rang.

At this hour? Ms. Nelson was calling.

McNeil hesitated, not wanting to answer, but worried she’d only be more persistent if he ignored her.

“What is it?”

“Get to the hospital. Paul got drunk at a bar and had to be taken in. God knows which jerk kept pouring drinks down his throat—he almost ended up with a stomach bleed.”

McNeil sounded unconcerned. “He drank himself into the ER? Good. Maybe he’ll finally learn his lesson.”

There was a stunned silence on the line before Madonna snapped, “Is that how you talk about your family? I asked you to come check on your cousin, not celebrate his misfortune!”

She hung up in a huff. McNeil tossed his phone onto the couch, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, his eyes dark and inscrutable.

He sat downstairs in the breeze until he felt clear-headed, then called for Xenia to fetch his coat. Slipping it on, he headed to the garage, got into his SUV, and drove to the hospital.

The smell of antiseptic hung heavy in the hospital corridors. Madonna, Fitch Nelson, and Mrs. Nelson were already there.

Mrs. Nelson was sobbing, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “Six people out drinking, and this is what happens. The doctor said if we’d waited any longer, his stomach would have ruptured. Who could hate Paul enough to do this to him?”

Madonna sat beside her, trying to calm her down. Paul had just come out of the emergency room—he was stable now.

Fitch stood quietly with a stormy look, unable to hide how worried he was for his son.

“He never takes anything seriously. This was bound to happen sooner or later.”

McNeil shot Paul a cold glance. Paul was still unconscious, an IV drip running into his hand.

Madonna glared at McNeil. “You’re supposed to be here to help look after your cousin, not stand around like you’re watching a show!”

McNeil showed not a shred of sympathy, his gaze lingering on Paul.

The young man’s face was pale, his eyes closed, features delicate and almost beautiful—now, even more striking in his vulnerability.

McNeil let out a cold snort. “And Victoria likes this kind of thing?”