“Mr. Thomas…”
Prescott handed Jonathan a folder.
“The photos circulating online were taken by a tabloid photographer. He must’ve had his sights set on Miss Rivers for a while…”
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 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?”
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