The Perfect Wife's Perfect Revenge novel Chapter 49

McNeil stepped into the bedroom, the only light coming from a single amber bedside lamp.

The spacious bed was empty, and the curtains fluttered gently in the night breeze.

He found her outside on the balcony, perched on a tall chair, wearing nothing but a thin white shirt. Her long, pale legs dangled in the moonlight, glowing with an ethereal allure.

She was supposed to be “asleep,” but instead, she sat with a glass of crimson liquid in her hand, her chin resting carelessly on the railing as she stared intently at her drink.

Every now and then, she brought the rim to her lips and took a delicate sip.

Through the sheer fabric of her shirt, McNeil could make out the soft, enticing lines of her body.

His throat tightened, and before he could stop himself, he strode over and snatched the wineglass from her hand.

“Are you trying to catch your death out here? It’s freezing.”

It had to be close to thirty degrees outside, and she was sitting there bare-legged, drinking cold wine.

A surge of anger welled up inside him. He scooped her up from the chair and tossed her over his shoulder.

The moment his hand touched her skin—cool, smooth, impossibly soft—a strange heat crawled up his spine.

“Leave me alone,” she muttered.

He dropped her onto the bed. Victoria blinked up at him, her gaze heavy and unfocused with drink, finally recognizing his face.

He was still in his suit from the evening, jacket unbuttoned but tie and all—every inch the elegant gentleman.

“Out in the middle of the night, drinking, getting into another man’s car—do you forget you have a husband?” McNeil leaned in, trapping her between his arms.

She lay beneath him, her dark hair spilling across the pillow like silk.

“And you, McNeil?” Her lips curled at the corners, her eyes shining with tears and something dangerously beautiful. “Does everyone know you have a wife?”

Did she look at the man whose car she’d gotten into tonight with that same wounded, seductive expression?

“McNeil, where are you? Are you coming home?” Violet’s voice trembled with worry. Ever since he’d dropped her and Gwyneth off at Winding Peak Lane, he hadn’t stopped driving. She’d barely finished helping Gwyneth with her bath before she noticed his car was gone.

She had a sinking suspicion he’d gone back to Victoria again. She couldn’t stand it.

“I’m not coming back tonight. Get some rest.”

His wife was passed out drunk; he couldn’t leave her like that.

Violet bit her lip until she tasted blood.

“So what happened this time? Is she clinging to you again, refusing to let you go?”

Gwyneth had told her she’d seen Victoria getting into another man’s car—so why was McNeil still so fixated on her?

Violet couldn’t help herself. “Did you sleep with her?”

She and McNeil had been together longer than he’d ever been with Victoria, and yet—he had never even touched her.