His Housewife Had Secret Identities novel Chapter 283

"I’ll do it."

Michael hoisted Jonathan up without missing a beat.

Jonathan didn’t protest. Given their height difference, it was far easier for Michael to support him than it had been for Niamh.

Niamh trailed beside them, silent, following Michael toward the black Mercedes parked at the curb.

"Didn’t expect you to be this nice, you know!" she blurted, the compliment genuine.

Michael, however, brushed it off. "If I weren’t helping him, you wouldn’t have anything good to say about me."

Niamh couldn’t help but laugh, shaking her head.

Michael bundled Jonathan into the back seat. "You should be grateful I decided not to take the sports car tonight," he remarked. For business meetings, the white Lamborghini was flashy and inappropriate—unlike the sleek, understated black Mercedes.

It was obvious to Michael what had happened: Jonathan had been drugged with some kind of aphrodisiac. The fact that Jonathan had managed to get himself out, drive away, and resist temptation even with a woman around—Michael figured that was eighty percent because Jonathan just wasn’t interested in women, and twenty percent sheer willpower.

"Get in," Michael called to Niamh, but didn’t offer her the back seat.

Yet, instead of taking the spacious passenger side up front, Niamh slid naturally into the back, squeezing in next to Jonathan.

Michael adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, irritation plain on his face—though Niamh didn’t so much as glance his way.

She let Jonathan rest his head in her lap. His right hand stayed clenched in a fist, rigid and unmoving.

She knew he was still fighting it, clinging to the pain to keep the drug’s effects at bay.

When Jonathan finally woke, his memories were patchy—unsurprising, given how little of last night he’d spent in his right mind. Still, he remembered enough: he and Marina had been drugged at the bar, and he’d nearly lost control. Thankfully, there’d been a glass in the hotel room—he’d smashed it in his hand, using the pain to keep himself anchored.

He distinctly recalled calling Prescott for help, but it was Niamh who had come to get him. Michael had shown up too—after giving him a beating, he’d also helped him out.

Jonathan rubbed at his throbbing temple, and only when he lowered his hand did he notice someone at his bedside.

Niamh was half-asleep, her head lolling. As she stirred, their eyes met and she jerked upright, awkwardly raking a hand through her hair.

"How—how are you feeling? Are you okay now?" she asked, flustered.

Jonathan lay there, silent, eyes sweeping over her from head to toe. He was in fresh pajamas, but Niamh was still wearing the same clothes from the day before.