Chapter 661
As the days ticked down to what would have been the Mid-Autumn Festival back home, Gwyneth felt a strange, creeping anxiety she couldn’t quite explain.
Just as she was about to clock out for the day, her phone buzzed. Hawthorne was calling.
“What do you want for dinner tonight?”
Gwyneth paused, thinking it over. Nothing in particular came to mind, but the fondue at Greenvale was famous all over the country. She’d been there a few times and honestly, it was pretty great.
“Fondue?” she ventured, her tone rising hopefully.
She wasn’t sure if Hawthorne would be into it. They rarely ate anything close to her own comfort food when they were together. Sure, she missed the warmth and informality of her old favorites, but she also knew the lingering smell of oil and spices stuck to her hair and clothes for hours. After a meal, she always felt like she’d been marinated in the kitchen.
And then there was Hawthorne, always turning up for dinner in a crisp suit, looking more like he belonged at an awards gala than hunched over a bubbling pot at a cozy restaurant. The whole thing was almost comically mismatched-like pairing red wine with cheese fries.
“Sure,” Hawthorne agreed without missing a beat. “If that’s what you want, let’s do it.”
Gwyneth barely had time to process his answer when a coworker popped her head into the office.
“Hey Gwyn, we’re grabbing dinner after work. You in?” It was unexpected, but she really wanted to join.
Hawthorne must have overheard, because Gwyneth changed her mind on the spot. “How about we go next time instead?” she said quickly into the phone.
Hawthorne hadn’t expected Gwyneth to ditch their dinner plans for an office get- together. He felt a surge of irritation-he kept it to himself, though, gripping his phone tightly, jealousy simmering just beneath the surface.
“Alright,” he said coolly. “Just let me know when you’re done, and I’ll pick you up.”
He could already predict she’d turn him down, so he added, “I can wait outside. No one will notice.”
Gwyneth murmured an “Okay,” then hung up before he could say more. Hawthorne was left staring at his phone, equal parts frustrated and helpless.
Hans, his driver, glanced at Hawthorne’s stormy expression and guessed- wrongly—that some sort of disaster had struck at home. But no, it was just a canceled dinner date.
Hawthorne watched Gwyneth leave with her colleagues, then told Hans to just drive him home.
Predictably, his phone had no new messages from Patti Yale; instead, he kept receiving automated texts about charges to his credit card. He’d given her a card loaded with two million dollars that morning, and in just a few hours, nearly half a million had been spent on luxury stores.
He called Hans: “Get the bank to send me a record of every transaction on my card today. I want everything on file for future reference.”
“Yes, sir,” Hans replied.
With that handled, Hawthorne retreated to his study to tackle the day’s unfinished work.
Meanwhile, Gwyneth was attending her second company dinner. The last one had been derailed by Bill Crawford, but tonight everyone was in high spirits. She even had a drink or two and found herself genuinely enjoying the evening.
“So, Gwyn,” someone piped up, curiosity barely concealed, “do you actually have
a boyfriend or not?”
There had been plenty of rumors swirling about her and Mr. Everhart-half-truths and wild speculation that no one could quite piece together.
“No,” she replied. She didn’t have a boyfriend, after all—she had a husband.
“So that middle-aged guy who dropped you off at work last time isn’t your boyfriend either?”
Gwyneth nearly snorted her drink. “Of course not. My car broke down, so a friend of a friend picked me up. They just didn’t want me to be late.”
She couldn’t blame her coworkers for being suspicious. After all, he had dropped her off right outside the building—and with Yvette’s tendency to gossip, it was no wonder stories had gotten out of hand.
Fueled by wine and curiosity, her colleagues kept peppering her with questions, some more outrageous than others. Gwyneth played along, answering every question with a half-truth or an outright fabrication, weaving a web of nonsense that satisfied everyone’s curiosity-at least for the night.