His Housewife Had Secret Identities novel Chapter 280

It was a spacious double room, easily large enough for two adults to share the bed.

Jonathan frowned as he knelt to help Marina off with her shoes and jacket. He paused at her inner layers—those, he left untouched. Straightening, he turned to leave.

But before he could take a step, a pair of arms wrapped tightly around his waist. He didn’t need to look to know it was Marina.

“Marina…” he began, but his words faltered as he felt her fingers at his belt.

“Jonathan… Jonathan, I’m so hot… I— I feel awful…” Her voice trembled, thick with desperation.

Jonathan turned. Marina was kneeling on the bed, her face flushed, eyes glazed, lips parted and gasping for breath, her hands restlessly tugging at her own clothes.

He stared at her, realization dawning. His hand moved for his phone—he needed to call Prescott, get a doctor, do something. But then, a strange sensation swept over him. His body felt… off.

Every glass of whiskey on the tower tonight—Marina had laced every single one.

Not only had Jonathan drunk; Marina had too.

She’d counted on Jonathan not leaving her alone, certain he’d drink with her. This way, they’d both be affected, and he’d be less likely to suspect her. Besides, she’d arranged for Preston Winslow and Zachary to join them too.

Zachary, notorious for his wild behavior, could easily have slipped something extra into her drink without meaning to—something more dangerous, more unpredictable.

But the pills Edna had given Marina were specially mixed, slow-acting, timed perfectly for this hotel room rendezvous.

Now, everything was unfolding just as Marina had planned.

Her cheeks burning, she threw herself into Jonathan’s arms. Her whole body was feverish—she couldn’t wait any longer.

Tonight, she was sure Jonathan would sleep with her.

And if everything went as hoped… maybe she’d even get pregnant.

Marina’s mind grew hazier by the second. She clung to this one, fevered thought:

She was going to become Jonathan’s woman.

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The city slept under a heavy silence.

And tonight, Jonathan had finally been gentle, attentive—yet it felt less like affection and more like a transaction.

Niamh couldn’t quite say what, exactly, made her so angry—or so heartsick. She only knew that, somewhere along the way, she’d lost the reckless, radiant boy she’d loved in silence for ten years.

The BMW picked up speed, zipping through one hairpin turn after another. Anyone watching might have broken into a cold sweat at her daring maneuvers.

As she drove, Niamh replayed Jonathan’s words from earlier in the night:

“My love… isn’t that what you’ve always dreamed of?”

Once, she had. Once, she believed she’d finally found it.

She slammed on the brakes. The BMW screeched to a halt in the darkness.

Pulling out her phone, she meant to send Jonathan a message—to tell him that whatever games Sprague wanted to play, whatever exchanges he hoped to make with his hollow declarations of love, she was done. She wanted a divorce.

But before she could even open WhatsApp, her phone rang.

She glanced at the caller ID—and froze, startled by the name on the screen.