It was no longer Niamh's birthday.
"Niamh, now that you've opened your own studio, you're the boss," Jonathan's voice was cold, all business again. "Let this gemstone be a lesson—there's no such thing as first come, first served in the industry. There's no fairness, no reason, just cutthroat competition. Don't be so naive."
Niamh sat in her car with the windows rolled up, her hand wrapped around her phone, fingers icy with shock.
"And besides, I've already compensated you," Jonathan added before hanging up.
Those last two words—"compensated you"—snapped Niamh out of her daze.
So that's what all the elaborate birthday plans were for. It wasn't because Jonathan felt pressured by his grandfather, or because he was reminiscing about their past together. It was because he'd snatched the gemstone she had her eye on and handed it over to Marina.
Compensation.
Niamh's hands tightened around the steering wheel, the veins on the back of her hands standing out starkly.
Aldenville—Bar Street.
When Preston Winslow stepped out of the private booth, he never expected to run into Niamh here.
She looked like she'd had way too much to drink, sprawled on the couch in a drunken stupor. If she'd been slumped at the table instead, he probably wouldn't have noticed her at all.
The thought of calling Jonathan flickered through his mind, but he shook it off almost instantly.
"What the hell is wrong with me?" he muttered under his breath.
So what if Niamh was Jonathan's wife on paper? It wasn't like Jonathan cared about her. For all he knew, Jonathan was probably off somewhere with Marina right now, having the time of his life.
Preston shook his head and tried to walk past, determined to pretend he hadn't seen a thing. After all, it wasn't his fault she'd drunk herself into oblivion. He had no responsibility here.
He took a few steps, then doubled back with a scowl and hauled Niamh to her feet.
She was lighter than he'd expected, and it wasn't much trouble to support her.
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