Divorce Failed My Wife's Secret Identities Shock the World novel Chapter 9

With Maeve's skillset, avoiding the Morales family would've been easy.

Maeve's mouth curved into a calculating smile. "I needed them to bite. I've got my reasons."

Before Jasper could press her, a scream ripped through the crowd near the dance floor.

Someone shouted, "I think a guy just dropped—like, dead!"

The aggressive music cut off mid-beat. The dancers scattered in a wave.

A young woman dropped to her knees beside the man on the floor and began to sob.

Club staff moved quickly, calling an ambulance.

Maeve pulled on her mask and strode into the circle, two fingers going to the man's wrist.

His breathing was thin, his face turning purple, his body sprawled like a corpse.

The girl cried harder, shaking. "Miles Thornton—wake up! Please wake up. Don't do this to me!"

Maeve snapped, impatient. "He's not dead yet. Stop screaming."

The girl froze, strangled by fear into silence.

Maeve kept checking the pulse. "Does he have a heart condition?"

The girl shook her head frantically. "I—I don't know. He was dancing, having fun, then he said his chest felt tight, and before I could even ask what was wrong, he—he turned like this."

Maeve didn't waste time questioning further. She tore open the man's shirt, exposing his chest.

With a small flick, the pen she carried shifted—its end releasing a thin, gleaming set of needles.

In front of everyone, Maeve's hands moved clean and fast, placing needles along precise points.

The nightclub fell into a silence so complete it felt like the air itself was holding its breath.

Everyone stared, trying to understand what this slim masked girl was doing.

Jasper followed her in and barked at the crowd, "Back up. Give him space. Keep the air moving. Alan—how long until the ambulance gets here?"

The next day was the memorial service marking seven weeks since Caden White's death.

By White family tradition, when the head of the family passed, the new head was required to lead the clan to the private cemetery and pay respects.

The cemetery held generations of Whites. Nestled against the hills, secluded and immaculate, it was the kind of place old money chose carefully—quiet, protected, and meant to last.

Outside the gates, hundreds of black luxury cars stood in orderly rows.

Andres, dressed in solemn black, walked at the front. Hans and Murray—his two closest senior aides—flanked him.

Twenty bodyguards in black followed behind.

Farther back, hundreds of people from the White Group stood waiting in neat formation, all dressed in black, ready for the ceremony to begin.

At the officiant's cue, Andres stepped forward, lowered his head, and stood in silence before the headstone.

At once, the crowd behind him fell into a deep, unanimous silence—heads bowed, eyes fixed on the stone.

The ritual was spare and formal: a moment of silence, a prayer, flowers laid at the stone, and final words spoken for the dead.