The Perfect Wife's Perfect Revenge novel Chapter 50

Victoria had been ill for a while, and though her health was slowly improving, she knew she couldn’t keep sending McNeil off to see Claire anymore.

She believed that a man only strayed when his needs weren’t being met at home. Secretly, Violet had bought a drawer full of lacy lingerie, planning every detail. Once McNeil finally gave in to her, she was sure he’d never think about Claire again.

She’d heard that women who’d given birth often had ugly stretch marks on their bellies. She didn’t want that for herself—she wasn’t ready to lose her looks.

McNeil lit a cigarette. “Violet, Claire is my wife.”

The words had barely left his lips when he heard a faint cough from the bedroom. He hung up right away.

Violet clutched her phone, tears streaming down her face, fingers tightening until she nearly snapped the device in two.

Staring out into the pitch-black night, she whispered to herself, “So, you two spent the whole night together, didn’t you?”

McNeil didn’t leave Claire’s place until dawn.

Claire slept until nearly nine, waking with her head pounding. She was still wearing McNeil’s dress shirt, nothing underneath. As she sat up, the buttons gaped open—her bra nowhere to be found.

She pressed her hand to her forehead and pulled the shirt tighter around her. Flashes of last night drifted back—she’d had a dream about McNeil, a vivid, shameless one. In her dream, they’d been together again and again. Her heart was already shattered, yet she could still dream of making love to him.

Claire couldn’t help but laugh at herself—pathetic.

When she swung her legs out of bed, her knees almost buckled. Her whole body ached—her head throbbed, her back was sore, and her legs trembled. She felt completely drained, as if the dream had been real.

But when Curtis saw Claire arrive, he was in an unusually good mood. He gave her a quick rundown of her tasks, and she glanced over the packed schedule without complaint.

Ailie trailed after her, peeking curiously at the color-coded calendar Curtis had prepared. Her eyes widened—there was a daunting list of contract proposals, one after another. Curtis’s last assistant had lasted less than a week. Rumor had it, she’d told everyone that Curtis was a tyrant and his demands were downright impossible.

“Hey, Ailie, you seem to know Mr. Garcia’s new assistant pretty well. What’s her story?” Jack from HR sidled over, eager for some gossip.

“She’s my friend—a whiz with numbers,” Ailie replied, not hiding her admiration. Back in their university days, Claire had been a legend, and finance was just her elective.

Jack rolled his eyes. “Come on, don’t try to cover for her. Is she Mr. Garcia’s new flame or what? A financial genius? Please. We do need one around here, but last I checked, her name isn’t Turner.”