His Housewife Had Secret Identities novel Chapter 108

Niamh sensed Daniel's intentions and spun around, desperate to run, but his bulky frame blocked her escape.

She tried to smash a bottle over his head, just as she'd done before, but this time the bottle slipped from her trembling hand and crashed to the floor.

She stared at her palm in disbelief—her fingers wouldn't obey her, and everything seemed to blur and double.

"Finally taking effect, huh? Took long enough…"

Daniel's voice sounded distant and distorted in her ears as Niamh felt her consciousness slipping away.

He'd drugged her.

The realization struck too late for her to do anything about it, and regret crashed over her in a sickening wave.

She should never have come to this dinner.

The room spun wildly around her. Heat roared through her veins, leaving her drenched in sweat and burning up, her cheeks flaming.

"Getting hot, aren't you? Don't worry, I'll help you… You'll feel much cooler once we get these clothes off…"

Daniel rubbed his hands together and grabbed Niamh, who had collapsed to her knees.

***

Hospital.

Inpatient wing.

Marina lay in bed, hospital gown bunched around her as she frowned at Jonathan.

"Preston Winslow totally overreacted. It's just a couple scrapes—he made it sound like I was dying. You drove over here in the middle of the night. What if you got stopped?"

"I'm fine," Jonathan replied, pouring her a glass of water and handing it over. "I'm just glad you're okay."

Tears shimmered in Marina's eyes. She knew Jonathan hadn't hesitated—he'd raced straight to the hospital as soon as he heard about her accident, not even caring about the risk of getting caught driving after a drink.

"I'll go check if your test results are ready," he said, heading out of the room.

Marina didn't stop him, but she knew perfectly well that all the reports were delivered directly to the attending physician—patients never needed to collect them themselves.

At the end of the corridor, Jonathan tried calling Prescott.

No answer.

***

The Celestia Palace Hotel

Presidential Suite 2408

Niamh fought with everything she had, but Daniel threw her onto the bed with ease.

She was burning up from the drugs, her entire body slick with sweat and feverish. Her cheeks stung—Daniel had slapped her several times, the pain snapping her back to herself, if only for a moment.

That pain was the only thing keeping her from fading into the haze.

She heard voices—someone was speaking—but she couldn't move.

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