His Housewife Had Secret Identities novel Chapter 233

Suddenly, Niamh remembered the employee who had jumped from the building after The Thomas Group’s stock value crashed.

Whenever the company faced a change in ownership, it wasn’t just the Thomas family or the upper management who were affected—it was the countless ordinary workers whose livelihoods hung in the balance.

Niamh drew a steady breath and spoke calmly.

“Yes, Lana is my friend. And The Thomas Group is your company—it has nothing to do with me.”

She didn’t look away as she said it. Meeting Jonathan’s eyes head-on, her gaze was unwavering, her tone resolute.

She saw it clearly: disappointment clouded Jonathan’s face.

Disappointment in her.

The room was silent, the air thick and unmoving, cold as poured concrete.

Jonathan was the first to break the tension.

“I should have realized sooner how cold and selfish you really are.”

Niamh thought the words suited him better than her.

“Right back at you,” she shot back.

A bitter smile flickered across Jonathan’s face as he stubbed out his cigarette.

“Did you really think I’d just let it go after you stabbed me in the back?”

Niamh’s expression flickered, but before she could react, Jonathan shoved her onto the bed.

Seeing her small, terrified face go pale as a sheet only seemed to lift Jonathan’s spirits.

“You can’t run. Your legs don’t work, remember? Why not stay and keep me company? Maybe a change of scenery will make things… more interesting.”

“Jonathan!” Niamh grabbed for something—anything—on the nightstand and swung it at him. But Jonathan effortlessly caught both her wrists, pinning her down.

She couldn’t move. Panic crashed over her, suffocating her like a wave.

“Never tried it with someone crippled before,” Jonathan sneered. “Can’t promise I’ll be gentle.”

One of his hands pinned her wrists above her head, the other hovered, ready—ripping her clothes would have been all too easy.

At this late hour, a few riders were still out on the track.

Two figures were on horseback—one ahead, galloping fast, the other lagging behind and struggling to catch up.

Jonathan finally slowed his horse, letting Preston Winslow close the gap.

“Jonathan…” Preston started, hesitating as he eyed Jonathan’s stormy expression.

Jonathan had changed into casual riding clothes: a deep red silk shirt, black suede vest, military-style jodhpurs, and polished boots. He looked every bit the modern British gentleman—elegant, yet unmistakably formidable.

But his expression was thunderous.

Preston couldn’t help wondering what on earth had happened, though he didn’t dare ask.

Jonathan had called him out here, his voice steady and even on the phone. Preston hadn’t thought much of it. But in person, he could see Jonathan was in a terrible mood.

They’d ridden around the track a dozen times. Preston was out of breath, grateful the course was circular—if it weren’t, Jonathan would have disappeared and left him far behind.

The atmosphere between them was tense, Jonathan’s presence almost suffocating, especially when he was like this.