Divorce Failed! My Wife's Secret Identities Shock the World novel Chapter 77

Grover Group's official product launch was right around the corner. Maeve needed every spare minute to prepare a "welcome gift" for them.

And none of it was worth explaining to Andres—an outsider.

So to shut him up, she tossed out the first lie that came to mind. "Met a handsome guy. Went on a date."

Andres knew she was trying to provoke him.

He still swallowed the hook.

"Who's he?"

Maeve's face didn't change. "His name's Dumbass. He's forty-eight. It's true love."

Even with all his self-control, Andres couldn't help it—he actually laughed, the sound sharp with disbelief.

Dumbass. Forty-eight.

Only Maeve could say something that ridiculous with a straight face.

"Maeve, if you want on that ship, you can ask me," Andres said, voice cold again. "You don't need to take the scenic route through Michael."

"He has a special status. He can't show up to that kind of event. If you're trying to use him to get what you want, you're going to be disappointed."

It took Maeve a moment to catch what he was really implying.

Then she went quiet—before letting out a soft laugh. "You know… if I acted cute in front of Mr. Perez, do you think he'd break the rules for me just once?"

That hit Andres right where he was most volatile.

"Fine," he snapped. "You'll get what you want. If you do, I'll admit I lose."

He threw that line like a gauntlet—and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

Only when his footsteps were completely gone did Maeve pull up a contact on her phone.

She typed: [Emergency. I need to borrow someone.]

The reply came fast: [Who?]

Maeve: [Your man.]

As guests passed by, greeting Andres with unmistakable respect, Anya felt a swelling satisfaction in her chest.

Of course. This was the kind of man she deserved—young, powerful, perched at the very top.

While Andres spoke with one of the VIPs, Anya pulled out her phone and filmed a short video, panning across the luxury—crystal, velvet, polished brass, the whole obscene display.

She couldn't wait to post it and make everyone choke on envy.

A large hand suddenly covered her camera.

Murray took the phone from her, brisk and unapologetic, and deleted every clip she'd recorded.

Then he handed it back. "Private event. No recording."

Anya's face tightened—humiliated. "I was just filming the scenery."

Murray didn't soften. "Those are Mr. Andres's rules. No one breaks them."

To Anya, Murray was just a bodyguard, yet he spoke to her like she was nothing. Like she didn't matter.