His Housewife Had Secret Identities novel Chapter 521

“Don’t… leave…”

“Why? Why won’t you even look at me…?”

“Please don’t leave me all alone…”

Through a haze, Jonathan saw a small child, no more than three or four years old.

A little boy.

But he couldn’t make out the boy’s face.

The boy lived in a huge house.

But inside, he was the only one there.

The empty house felt more like a haunted mansion.

How long had it been since he’d seen his father?

He didn’t know.

How long since he’d seen his mother?

He didn’t know that, either.

The only people he ever saw were the housekeepers his parents had hired.

He never went hungry—the staff made sure he was fed.

But on stormy nights, when thunder boomed and rain lashed the windows, there were no arms for him to run to, no warm embrace from his mother or father.

In those moments, he’d reach out his small, trembling hands to the housekeeper, desperate for help.

He wished she would scoop him up, hold him close, kiss his forehead, tell him everything would be alright.

“You’ll be just fine if you stay inside, young master,” the housekeeper said gently, taking his hand and leading him to his bedroom. She sat him on the bed, checked the windows, and then shut the door tight behind her.

The house was soundproofed, but the roar of thunder still crashed in the boy’s ears. He crawled under the covers, his tiny body shaking uncontrollably.

…

Today was his birthday.

Usually, the housekeeper made three simple dishes for dinner. Today, she made five.

But there was no cake.

No candles.

Even though the family could afford it, no one bothered to get him one.

So there were no wishes to make.

The boy already knew that wishes never came true, anyway.

“You eat up now, young master,” the housekeeper said.

The vast dining table was set with plates of food, but the little boy sat alone, quietly eating.

Tears slipped down his cheeks as he chewed in silence.

Every dish tasted just a bit bitter.

Jonathan didn’t bother to ask why Niamh was there.

It didn’t matter how or why she had come; the only thing that mattered was that she was by his side.

His memory was patchy, fragments torn and blurred.

The last thing he remembered was the Juvenile Rehabilitation Center, rain hammering down outside.

Did he pass out?

He couldn’t recall.

All he knew was that his mouth was bone-dry, his limbs felt as heavy as lead, and he was burning up with fever.

He didn’t need to touch his forehead to know it—he could feel the heat in every aching inch of his body.

A drip was taped to his right hand, and several IV bags hung nearby.

“Thank you… for coming to look after me…” Jonathan croaked, his voice hoarse.

Niamh looked at his pale, exhausted face, her own expression calm and unreadable.

“No need to thank me. If you’re grateful to anyone, thank Prescott.”

As she spoke, she shook down the thermometer and handed it to him.

Maybe it was the fever, or maybe it was just the way illness strips you bare, but when Jonathan looked into her eyes, he was overwhelmed by gratitude—as if he owed her everything.

All she’d done was hand him a thermometer.

Truth was, Niamh had been planning to head to The Thomas Group when Prescott called. He told her Jonathan had been caught in the rain all night, his fever refusing to break.