Divorce Failed My Wife's Secret Identities Shock the World novel Chapter 398

Maeve thought: "That arrogant old man would absolutely say something like that."

A knock sounded at the door.

Andres was back—his smile gone, expression tight.

He glanced at Maeve with a look that said: "Something unpleasant happened."

Maeve answered with her eyes: "I've got it."

In front of Sofia, Andres knew how to rein himself in. He quickly put away the sharpness and returned to being the attentive son.

After a few polite lines, he used "resetting the estate's formations" as an excuse and led Maeve out.

Sofia wasn't interested in any of that. She was still floating in the excitement of treatment—of the possibility that her legs might work again.

With Andres handling things, the house business wasn't hers to worry about anyway.

Once they were outside the room, Andres finally turned to Maeve, apologetic.

"There's a small problem…"

Maeve smiled. "Someone showed up to challenge you?"

Andres was starting to feel genuine awe at her instincts.

"Have you heard of the Luminary Order?"

Maeve searched her memory and quickly landed on an answer.

"The current head should be Master Veritas."

Andres raised a brow. "You know him?"

"I don't," Maeve said. Then, after a beat, amended, "But I've heard things."

"That sect cares obsessively about reputation. They won't tolerate anyone saying a bad word about them."

"So they came to pick a fight this fast… to salvage their name."

Andres let out a humorless breath. "You nailed it."

"The formation in my mother's courtyard? Master Veritas himself set it up back then."

Together they walked into White Manor's formal reception room.

It was suddenly crowded.

Tanner stood at the side as host. Hans and Murray were there, along with several of Andres's regular security men.

Three visitors sat neatly on the couch—two men and one woman.

The men were handsome; the woman was striking.

The one who grabbed attention instantly was the woman in the center.

Late twenties, maybe. Beautiful features, a cold severity between her brows.

Her hair was pulled into a high ponytail, and she wore a fitted dress that showed off a flawless figure—yet carried a vintage elegance, like something out of an old portrait.

The two young men weren't ordinary-looking either.

Their faces and bearing screamed money—grown in a greenhouse of privilege.