His Housewife Had Secret Identities novel Chapter 328

“Jonathan…”

As he stood up, Jonathan heard Marina murmuring his name, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Don’t go… Jonathan… please, don’t… don’t leave me… don’t leave me here alone…”

Marina’s brows were furrowed, a sheen of cold sweat on her forehead. Jonathan instantly realized she was caught in the grips of a nightmare.

She’d flown halfway across the world to attend a wedding, only to end up kidnapped. Even after being rescued, it would be impossible for anyone to feel safe again—physically or emotionally.

Jonathan sat back down, staying at her bedside until her breathing finally steadied and she slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep. Only then did he slip out quietly.

He stationed two bodyguards right outside Marina’s door.

The hallway beyond was silent, not a sound to be heard.

Jonathan’s leather shoes pressed into the thick carpet, but even that didn’t break the hush.

He walked on in a daze, only realizing where he was when he glanced up and saw the brass numbers: 1237. His own suite.

And Niamh’s.

He swiped his keycard and stepped inside. The room was pitch black.

No one was home.

It was nearly midnight.

The darkness seemed to seep into his eyes, making them appear just as fathomless and cold.

Jonathan pulled out his phone and dialed.

He called Niamh.

He remembered the message she’d sent earlier, and from what Daniel had said, Niamh had left the reception with someone she knew—a man.

The call rang for so long that Jonathan almost hung up, certain no one would answer.

Then, finally, someone picked up.

“Hello?”

It wasn’t Niamh’s voice.

It was a man’s.

Jonathan’s gaze darkened, his eyes turning as unreadable as the midnight sea.

“Julian… Are you with Niamh?”

Outside, the night pressed in. The surf hissed against rocks and sand, restless under the cold moon.

The air was sharp, the waves colder still, and even the moonlight seemed to hold a chill.

17 Silverleaf Boulevard, Azure Bay.

By day, the bay was a shimmering blue ribbon, sparkling beneath the sun.

It was private property—a Mediterranean-style villa perched above the water like a diamond on silk.

But at night, the place looked more like a gilded cage.

Julian stood by the window, the salty wind from the ocean washing over him.

He held a phone—Niamh’s phone—in his hand.

Behind him, the bedroom was spacious and silent. Instead of a wall, a floor-to-ceiling pane of glass framed the view.

Through the spotless glass, he could clearly see Niamh sleeping on the king-sized bed.

She was still unconscious, tucked beneath the covers. Her evening gown, soaked through, lay discarded on a chair.

Julian had removed it himself.