His Housewife Had Secret Identities novel Chapter 530

Niamh had already told Elmer most of what was going on over the phone; now, he simply sat there quietly, listening as she vented her frustrations.

But Elmer felt just as bitter.

City Hall’s records had delivered a simple verdict—

Niamh was still married.

No divorce.

Niamh couldn’t make sense of it. Neither could Elmer.

He had fought his way back from a coma, waited so long to hear that Niamh was finally free, and had only just become her official boyfriend.

And then—

Niamh was still married?

Elmer was furious, with nowhere to direct his anger.

It wasn’t Niamh he was angry with, of course. It was Jonathan.

Niamh, at this very moment, was furious with Jonathan too.

“What the hell is Jonathan playing at?” Niamh snapped. “Did he drag me through all of this just to mess with me?”

She finished her coffee in one sharp gulp.

What she really needed right now was a stiff drink.

Elmer didn’t say a word.

Even though he thought he knew the answer.

What was Jonathan really after?

Elmer couldn’t say for sure if Jonathan loved Niamh or not. But he knew one thing: Jonathan wanted Niamh as his wife.

That’s why Jonathan had never intended to divorce her.

Outside, the regal midnight-blue Bentley had vanished into the city, destination unknown.

Night was falling. The streetlights flickered on, bathing everything in a golden haze.

Elmer drove Niamh home since she’d had a few drinks. With him around, she wouldn’t drown herself in alcohol and end up blackout drunk.

The sound echoed down the empty hallway. Jonathan’s cheek reddened instantly.

But there was no anger or resentment in his eyes. Instead, it was Niamh who was fuming.

“Calm down,” Jonathan said, lifting a takeout cup. “I got you an iced smoothie.”

Niamh ignored him. She glanced at the cup—it was already melted.

He must have been waiting for a long time.

As Jonathan watched her unlock the door, he tried, “Look, after that slap, can’t you at least let me come inside?”

He propped his hand against the door, blocking her from closing it.

“No,” Niamh said flatly.

He hesitated, then offered, “How about this—let you slap the other cheek, and then you let me in?”

“Fine.”

He wasn’t expecting her to agree, and for a split second, he hesitated—just long enough for Niamh to swing, landing another stinging slap on his other cheek, her anger radiating through the contact.