His Housewife Had Secret Identities novel Chapter 512

The soaring stock price of the Thomas Group didn’t go unnoticed—two people, in particular, had their eyes glued to the numbers.

One was Julian Neville.

The other was the elusive joker.

As the Thomas Group’s shares kept climbing, droves of individual investors and venture capitalists rushed in, hungry for a piece of the action.

But just as the internet was abuzz, waiting for Jonathan to announce his wedding with Marina, the world was blindsided by a bombshell.

“Holy crap! Isn’t that Marina?”

“What is this? Some kind of video she shot?”

“No freaking way!”

“Wait—she was in adult films?”

“This is wild! Mr. Thomas’s first love used to be a porn star?”

“All that talk about her being assaulted... Was she just filming a new scene?”

“Is the Thomas Group faking this whole ‘tragic love’ act to con us small-time investors?”

Overnight, explicit videos featuring Marina flooded every corner of the internet. The cyber security teams scrambled to delete them, but the system had been infected; nothing could be scrubbed clean.

Earlier that evening, Marina had been lying quietly in her hospital bed, Edna by her side, both of them waiting—hoping, perhaps—that Jonathan would show up out of sympathy, responsibility, or maybe just buckle under the mounting public pressure and propose.

Sprague, meanwhile, was still riding high, eager to see just how much further the company’s stock could climb.

Then everything fell apart.

“What is this? I spent a fortune sending you to Blackspire Academy, and this is what you were really up to?”

“I’m cutting all ties with you! I, Edna, have no daughter like you!”

In his office, Jonathan flipped through a slim file marked “Whitelist.” He’d had Prescott put it together. In truth, there was only one company on the list, registered in Coralis.

“Mr. Thomas, you wanted to see me?” Prescott entered, every inch the respectful aide.

“Yes.”

Jonathan set the file aside and looked up. For a long moment, their eyes met. Prescott felt a chill run down his spine—he hadn’t seen Jonathan look this grim, this cold, in ages.

“You have three days,” Jonathan said quietly. “I want you to look into someone.”

“Who does Mr. Thomas want me to investigate?”

Prescott’s question hung in the air until the silence became suffocating, as heavy as wet cement.

At last, Jonathan spoke again, his voice icy and steely, uttering just a single name:

“Marina.”