Marrying my secret admirer after my husband's fake death novel Chapter 179

Back when Edith was still with The Vance Family, she’d often stumble across Salome flaunting her wealth on Twitter.

Salome would show off The Vance Family’s garden in that calculated, saccharine way of hers–always making sure to highlight how exclusive it was. Every post would be titled something like, “A Million–Dollar Garden in Northcrest.”

Edith used to wonder, Is there really nothing else to brag about? She’s resorting to showing off the family’s old house?

But eventually, Edith figured it out. Salome worked hard to craft this image of herself as someone above material things, but deep down, she desperately wanted everyone

to know she was a rich man’s wife.

Edith glanced at Salome’s latest post.

With just one look, she felt a pang of recognition.

Wait, isn’t that Northcrest Tower?

She checked the date–it was just a few minutes ago.

So Salome was here too?

Edith steadied herself and scrolled through Salome’s feed: an obviously over–edited photo of herself looking radiant and pregnant, a shot of Beckett’s back, and a view from the restaurant’s dining room–she could even spot Hawksley Tower in the

background.

The caption read, “What’s it like to have a husband who dotes on you unconditionally? Northcrest Tower is always fully booked, but when I was craving something special, my husband brought me here right away!”

Typical Salome.

Beneath the post, people were gushing in the comments about how expensive Northcrest Tower was.

Edith stuck around to read a few.

Amidst the sea of envy and admiration, she finally found a comment that was trying a little too hard to flatter Salome–even as it shared some “facts“:

“Our darling Salome really is the queen of high society! This place is at least a

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Chapter 179

thousand dollars a head, and your husband didn’t even bat an eye before bringing you

here!”

Reading it made Edith’s skin crawl.

Was that Salome’s burner account? The tone was identical to hers.

And “our husband“… seriously?

Edith felt nauseous.

She quickly exited Twitter, certain that if she read any more, she’d lose her appetite entirely.

Instead, she did some mental math. If it was really a thousand dollars per person, wouldn’t she need to prepare nearly five grand for the whole dinner?

She glanced at her WhatsApp transfer–a measly three hundred bucks. Not even enough to tip the waiter.

Edith took a deep breath. There was no other way. She’d have to dip into her backup

funds.

She’d just stepped out of the ladies‘ room, scrolling through her list of bank cards for anything usable, when she ran straight into the last person she wanted to see.

Beckett.

Just the sight of him soured her mood.

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