His Housewife Had Secret Identities novel Chapter 229

The man strode purposefully into the TerraVita Recovery Center and marched straight up to Niamh. He turned his head and addressed the two security guards behind him.

“Is this how you treat a lady? Have some respect.”

The guards instinctively stepped back. The man flashed a genial smile and extended his hand to Niamh.

“Good afternoon, Miss Rivers. My name’s Michael.”

Niamh didn’t shake his hand. Instead, she eyed him warily. “How do you know my last name is Rivers?”

Michael lowered his hand and casually slipped it into the pocket of his tailored slacks.

“I know more than just your last name. I know you have a friend named Lana, a vocal instructor at NeoFrontier Academy.”

Niamh’s brow furrowed, suspicion sharpening her features. Whoever this Michael was, he definitely wasn’t here for friendly conversation.

“Who are you, really? What do you want?”

Michael shrugged, a lopsided grin on his face. “Why don’t we take a walk, Miss Rivers? I can’t stand the atmosphere in rehab clinics. They make me feel like I’m the patient.”

Niamh hesitated, but before she could react, Michael grabbed her wrist.

His grip was shockingly strong, his fingers digging in until a sharp pain shot up her arm. She tried to pull away, but he only tightened his hold and started to drag her toward the exit.

The guards made as if to intervene, but at that moment, the receptionist—still on the phone—shot them a pointed look and a subtle nod, signaling them to let Niamh go.

Michael hustled Niamh outside and practically shoved her into his car—a flashy white Lamborghini, utterly at odds with the refined air he tried to project.

By now, Niamh understood that Michael’s polished manners were just a facade. He’d scolded the guards for being rough, but no one had been rougher with her than Michael himself. Her arm still throbbed like it had been nearly wrenched from its socket.

Michael drove her to an exclusive private club.

Niamh balked at the entrance, refusing to go inside, but Michael leaned in and whispered, “Don’t you want to know why your dear friend Lana got fired?”

The private lounge was dimly lit; only Niamh and Michael sat across from each other, their faces half-shadowed.

“Alright,” Niamh said, breaking the tense silence. “Start explaining. What do you want from me? And how do you know about Lana? Why was she let go?”

The questions tumbled out of her mouth. She was overwhelmed; if he didn’t give her some answers soon, she was going to lose it.

Michael, unhurried, poured himself a glass of whiskey over ice, then lounged back on the sofa and patted his thigh.

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