As he spoke, Prescott kept glancing at Jonathan, searching for any sign of
reaction.
Jonathan gave him nothing.
Prescott cleared his throat and tried to be more direct.
“Should we try to bury the story?”
“Why?”
Jonathan finally looked up, his eyes sharp as needles.
Prescott felt a chill down his spine under that piercing gaze.
“Niamh and I are no longer connected.”
Jonathan’s voice was cool–any colder, and it would’ve been icy.
Prescott opened his mouth, but only managed a quiet breath.
True, Jonathan and Niamh had finalized their divorce in Blackspire, but the decree had never been certified by the Aldenville consulate. In other words, the divorce wasn’t legally binding at home.
Prescott hesitated, the truth caught on the tip of his tongue. Jonathan suddenly let out a low, mirthless laugh.
“Even if it needed to be buried, it’s not my place. Isn’t Julian still around? Didn’t he just call off his own wedding because of Niamh?”
Prescott could tell Jonathan’s words weren’t really a question, more a jab.
“Mr. Thomas, the whole internet knows you and Miss Rivers are divorced.”
“Mm.”
Jonathan nodded, offering nothing further.
He was well aware that, after rumors painted Niamh as a serial cheater and
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branded her an adulteress, it was Sprague Thomas who’d fanned the
flames–publicly cutting ties to Niamh to earn sympathy, drive up publicity, and send the company’s stock price soaring.
Prescott lingered, hesitating, clearly wanting to say more. Jonathan broke the silence:
“Is there something else?”
“It’s just…if you’d like, Mr. Thomas, I can make another trip to Blackspire and get the divorce-”
“Prescott.”
Jonathan cut him off, his tone frosty.
“Do you know why I hired you as my assistant?”
Prescott blinked, caught off guard by the sudden question.
When he shook his head, Jonathan answered coolly, “Because you’re smart. You have good judgment.”
“Thank you, Mr. Thomas…”
“So don’t ask stupid questions.”
Only then did Prescott realize what Jonathan really meant.
“My apologies, Mr. Thomas. I shouldn’t have overstepped.”
He bowed his head and quietly slipped out of the office.
Jonathan reached for his phone, half–hidden beneath a pile of documents. The screen glowed, filled with scathing comments and insults directed at Niamh.
He stared at the light, but somehow it only made his eyes look darker, like a bottomless abyss.
Niamh had followed Peter’s advice and stayed holed up at home all day.
If ever there was a case of “when it rains, it pours,” she was living it now.
She hadn’t set foot outside, but her work woes kept piling up.
First came the breach of contract.
Her jewelry brand, Nocturne Royal Jewels, had landed lucrative deals only because Shine magazine hyped her dazzling debut at Luminous Divas Fashion Week–and, later, because the press revealed she was married to Jonathan.
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530
But overnight, her reputation was ruined. The internet turned on her, branding her a “discarded trophy wife,” and every business partner she’d lined up either pulled out or slapped her with steep penalties, claiming their brand image had been damaged by association.
Every single one.
Niamh was hemorrhaging money, her cash reserves dwindling fast.
And then came the investors pulling out.
She had to admit, she never imagined Marcus Lawson–the man who’d approached her with an enticing offer–was actually working for Julian.
Julian had been helping her behind the scenes all along, and for that, she was truly grateful.
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