The Perfect Wife's Perfect Revenge novel Chapter 323

Paul was drunk out of his mind—so far gone, in fact, that when he looked at McNeil, he saw double. Slumped over the table, all he could do was gasp for breath.

Victoria stared, utterly aghast, as McNeil ordered the waitstaff to uncork every bottle in the place and pour them over the men at the table. Paul got it the worst: his own bodyguard yanked him upright by the hair and forced him to chug an entire bottle straight from the neck.

“If he loves drinking so much, let’s make sure he gets his fill,” McNeil said, his gaze flicking to Victoria.

When Victoria tried to stand, she ended up leaning heavily on him. She could usually hold her liquor, but against five men, even if she managed to take down three, she was still left weak and dizzy. Her only option was to cling to McNeil for support.

He slid an arm around her waist, steadying her. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes hazy but defiant, and her long dark hair tumbled around her shoulders. Even drunk, she was breathtaking—her lips full and red, her dress slipping slightly as she looked up at him from under heavy lashes, her expression a mixture of mischief and vulnerability. McNeil glanced down and caught a glimpse of cleavage where her dress had fallen open, her curves barely contained.

“Wait—McNeil—” she tried to protest, but before she could finish, he swept her up and tossed her over his shoulder.

The world spun even more violently, and Victoria had no choice but to clutch his neck, burying her face against his shoulder with a soft, helpless sigh. “Slow down—” she managed to murmur. It was meant as a plea for him to walk carefully, but the words, thick with intoxication, came out sounding far more intimate.

McNeil’s eyes darkened. Instead of slowing, he quickened his pace, carrying her out and loading her gently into the car. He pulled out his phone and wired money to the bar manager. “Make sure those guys in the private room keep drinking all night. Especially the one in black—don’t let him stop until sunrise.”

The manager risked a glance at the passenger seat. The woman, half-awake, her dress slipping off one shoulder and jacket missing, glowed under the streetlights streaming in through the car window. McNeil shot him a cold glare, and the manager immediately looked away.

The window rolled up slowly, shutting out the city as the engine roared to life. The car tore through the night like a beast unleashed.

Hours later, Xenia woke to the sound of the car pulling into the driveway. She hurried downstairs just in time to see Mr. McNeil carrying Mrs. McNeil straight up to the second floor, the scent of liquor trailing in their wake.

Without missing a beat, Xenia went to the kitchen and started preparing a restorative broth. When she brought it upstairs, she found the bedroom door ajar and spotted their clothes strewn haphazardly across the floor. A blush crept up her cheeks at the suggestive atmosphere lingering inside; she immediately turned and hurried back down the stairs.

She pushed his hand away, voice thick and muffled. “McNeil, I don’t love you anymore. I really don’t. Please—let’s go our separate ways.”

McNeil froze, his self-control snapping. Something in her words sent him over the edge. In the darkness, he became a man possessed, taking her with a desperate, almost savage intensity.

“Even if you don’t love me, Victoria, you won’t love anyone else. Not now, not ever.” His voice was a low growl against her ear.

She was lost beneath him, her senses spinning. McNeil, once so hard to shake, now clung to her like a man starved for affection, desperate for even a scrap of her love. He remembered how, when they first met, Victoria had fallen for him at first sight—clingy and sweet, impossible to shake off. Now, just seeing her was a struggle, and every word from her mouth was a fresh wound: I don’t love you anymore.

Normally, exhaustion would pull him under after everything, but tonight, with Victoria lying beside him, sleep was impossible. After a shower, he pulled on his robe, glanced once at her sleeping form, and then tore open the door, stalking out.

Downstairs, the living room was flooded with light. McNeil sank onto the couch, chain-smoking in silence. Xenia watched from the kitchen, bewildered. Just an hour ago, the couple upstairs seemed so passionate—so why did Mr. McNeil now look like he was falling apart?