The Perfect Wife's Perfect Revenge novel Chapter 521

Gwyneth spent the whole day at Leonie’s house, and that night, the two girls sat by the open window of the upstairs bedroom, nibbling on snacks and watching the stars.

The rain that had been pouring down all day had finally stopped by evening. Droplets still clung to the eaves, trailing down the columns, but the sky had cleared. Moonlight bathed the garden in a silvery glow, and above them, a sweep of stars shimmered against the velvet night.

Having Gwyneth over seemed to have unlocked something in Leonie; she chattered non-stop, her words tumbling out with barely a pause for breath. She kept Gwyneth up talking until the early hours, refusing to let her go to sleep, until Gwyneth could barely keep her eyes open. Only then did they both squeeze under one duvet, curling up together. In the middle of the night, Gwyneth woke with a start, feeling something heavy pinning her down. Opening her eyes, she found Leonie’s leg draped squarely across her stomach; Leonie was fast asleep, looking so relaxed she was nearly drooling.

It was almost comical, how this easy looseness clashed with Leonie’s daytime image as a perfectly proper young lady. Clearly, Mr. and Mrs. Everhart doted on their daughter, sparing her even the tiniest hardship—even the strictest household rules were softened for her.

Gwyneth, in contrast, lay on her back with her hands folded neatly over her chest. Even in sleep, she was the picture of composure—years of diligent study and undistracted discipline had shaped both her manners and her temperament. She hadn’t even had a proper rebellious phase.

Apart from her recent reluctance to return home after studying abroad, even her childhood defiance against Victoria had long since faded away.

Carefully, she inched herself out from under Leonie’s smooth-skinned leg and glanced at the moonlight pouring through the window. An unexpected chill swept over her.

That deep, hollow loneliness—the kind that gnaws at you even when your family is still around, leaving your heart strangely empty—was something few people could ever truly understand.

Turning her head, Gwyneth looked at Leonie, who was sleeping soundly beside her. A pang of envy passed through her, but she closed her eyes again. All night, her sleep was restless, her dreams uneasy.

She woke early the next morning, certain that Leonie would still be asleep. To her surprise, Leonie was already up and back from a run in the garden.

“You’re awake! I wish I could sleep as well as you. I hardly got any rest last night—ugh,” Leonie grumbled, tossing herself onto the bed.

Gwyneth couldn’t help but smile in disbelief. Who was the one who’d nearly smothered her with a leg in the middle of the night, and slept so deeply she hadn’t stirred even when shaken? Leonie had the nerve to complain about not sleeping well.