His Housewife Had Secret Identities novel Chapter 88

Niamh didn't refuse, and when they met, she asked Giselle to keep her identity a secret.

Giselle Westmore kept her promise.

They hadn't seen each other in three years. Niamh had assumed Giselle would have long forgotten her, but to her surprise, Giselle greeted her with the same warmth as always.

Dinner was on Giselle, and Niamh didn't protest—there was no point in pretending otherwise.

But the Piano Queen pendant Giselle offered was far too extravagant. Niamh flatly refused to accept it, only for Giselle to threaten—half-joking, half-serious—that if Niamh kept turning her down, she'd divorce her husband on the spot.

Niamh was left speechless, unable to see how the logic added up.

In the end, she took the jewelry, but didn't wear it—afraid it would draw too much attention.

She was waiting for a cab by the curb when her phone rang before the car even arrived.

The caller ID was a number she didn't recognize, but the series of repeating digits made it obvious someone had paid extra for that number.

Niamh hesitated for a moment, then answered.

"Hello?"

"Niamh, you have to get over here, quick!"

It was Preston Winslow's voice, and Niamh's eyes widened in surprise.

When she didn't respond right away, Preston hurried on, "Jonathan's drunk, we're at the club right now! He says if you don't come, he's just going to drink himself into oblivion."

Niamh almost wanted to ask where Marina was.

But she remembered Giselle had dragged her straight into the elevator earlier, so she wasn't sure whether Jonathan had stayed with Marina afterward.

Still, even if Jonathan wasn't with Marina, why was he out at a club getting wasted?

Was there some urgent reason to drink himself silly?

She couldn't figure it out.

It couldn't be because he saw her getting along so well with Giselle, could it? Was that why he was upset?

She gave a bitter laugh, thinking she was overanalyzing.

"If he's drunk, just get him home. Or call Prescott."

She wove her way through small clusters of guests, searching for ages before she finally found the private room Preston had described.

She pushed open the door, and the first thing she saw was Jonathan on the couch.

He looked perfectly at ease—his tie undone, the top three buttons of his shirt open, the elegant line of his collarbone just visible.

He sat with one leg crossed over the other, a half-smoked cigarette in one hand, his other arm around Marina—

He didn't look the least bit like the hopeless drunk Preston had described over the phone.

Even in the dim light, Niamh caught the glint of a smile in Jonathan's dark eyes as he saw her.

"Damn it! How did I lose again!" a guy nearby exclaimed, stomping his foot.

At the same time, Preston was doubled over with laughter, slapping his knee.

"I told you, didn't I? I said I was going to win!"

Standing in the doorway, Niamh understood instantly—