His Housewife Had Secret Identities novel Chapter 413

Niamh stared at the WhatsApp message, speechless. Honestly, working for Jonathan must be a nightmare—no wonder Prescott always seemed stressed.

She half-joked to herself, “Maybe when my company finally makes it big, I should poach Prescott as my assistant.”

But then she remembered the kind of salary Jonathan could afford to pay. Realistically, she was nowhere near that level yet.

Truth be told, attending The Thomas Group’s centennial gala had never been in Niamh’s plans, even though Jonathan had given her a heads-up well in advance. This was exactly why, before their divorce, she had been so adamant about not accepting any Thomas Group shares. The moment she became a shareholder, she’d inevitably get tangled up in their affairs, one way or another.

Still, the last thing she wanted was to get Prescott into trouble at work. With a resigned sigh, Niamh gathered her things and headed downstairs.

Outside, an imperial blue Bentley gleamed under the weight of the night, standing out like a sapphire beneath the streetlights.

Niamh paused in surprise.

But then, considering that Prescott often drove Jonathan’s car, it actually made sense for him to be here tonight as well.

She pulled open the passenger side door. “Sorry about this, Prescott. I know it’s a hassle to come all the way out here for me—”

She stopped short. The man behind the wheel wasn’t Prescott at all.

“Jonathan?” Niamh’s eyes widened in shock.

Jonathan shot her a cool, indifferent glance. “Buckle up,” he said, his tone flat.

“Oh. Right…” Niamh fumbled with her seatbelt, her mind racing. She could have sworn Jonathan’s message specifically said Prescott would come pick her up—so why was Jonathan himself here?

It made no sense. Tonight was the Thomas Group’s hundredth anniversary celebration. Shouldn’t Jonathan be at the gala, playing host and running the show? Why on earth would he leave all that behind to come act as her chauffeur?

Especially considering she was just a minor shareholder—nothing close to anyone important in the company’s grand scheme of things.

Jonathan was drenched in sweat, his face contorted with pain, and he was already fading in and out of consciousness.

“Jonathan, stay with me! Stay with me!” Niamh cried, her hands pressing desperately against the wound to slow the bleeding. She barely registered whether the attacker had fled; saving Jonathan was all that mattered.

She dialed emergency services, her hands shaking. The dispatcher’s voice on the other end was brisk: the ambulances were all out, and only one could make it to them—but it would take at least fifteen minutes. Roadwork and gridlock were choking the entire route.

Without hesitating, Niamh hung up, wrestled Jonathan into the passenger seat, and slid behind the wheel. She floored the accelerator, racing Jonathan’s Bentley through the city toward the nearest hospital.

Meanwhile, back at The Thomas Group’s grand ballroom, a ripple of unease began to spread. First the Thomases, then other guests, started to realize something was off.

Where had Jonathan gone?

This was the company’s centennial celebration, and Jonathan had been there just moments ago. Now, he’d vanished—without a trace, and for far too long.