Forced Marriage: My Wife, My Redemption novel Chapter 291

Chapter 291: And tonight....

~Night~

Davis ended the call, a sigh escaping his lips. His gaze lingered longer on her photo on the screen, his hand pausing slightly on her cheek.

Quietly, he dialed another number. After a few rings, a voice filtered through. "Davis?"

"Richard, I need your help concerning her."

Richard stiffened, his gaze sweeping the area. Noticing no one nearby, he sighed in relief.

"She came to the meeting alone?" His voice was low.

"I suspect so," Richard answered.

"No need to suspect. It’s a fact. I called her guard and discovered they never knew when she left the house," he reported helplessly.

He had called several times, but when she didn’t pick up, he was left with no other option than to contact her guards—who turned out to be unaware of her departure, as her usual car was still at home.

Davis did some deduction and arrived at one conclusion—she had gone out with another car.

Recalling she had mentioned checking out the venue, he concluded that Richard, being her manager, must be present.

"That’s how she is. She usually walks alone, and the guards stay at a distance since she doesn’t like having them around her," he explained.

Davis sighed. "Please take her home yourself. She shouldn’t be driving at this time. I’ve already sent her guards to her location."

"Is she aware?"

"No, and she doesn’t have to be. I just don’t want to risk anything going wrong with her," he replied.

Though he hadn’t entered this marriage willingly, now he wouldn’t want to lose it. Her presence had always been the force that kept him going.

"Alright," Richard answered, followed by a beep tone. After the call, Davis took a deep breath, relieved.

A glass of brandy in his hand, he slowly swirled the cup, his cold gaze fixed on the swirling drink, his mind spinning with thoughts. This night was sure to be restless.

Seated at the far end of the club, away from prying eyes, his countenance was cold, his aura domineering—keeping people several feet away. His wheelchair was nowhere in sight as he casually watched the activities around him.

Tonight, he wasn’t out for a drink but was more concerned with getting this game rolling. A figure emerged from the shadows and sat before him. "What did you find out?" he asked coldly.

"Boss, same as the information you got," the subordinate reported.

"Alright," he said.

Slowly, he stood and walked away, leaving his subordinate dumbfounded—wondering where he was headed and what he was planning to do. The next minute, his eyes widened in trepidation as he watched Davis moving toward the underground casino.

He couldn’t help but wonder how Davis would gain access to this flaming hall. He rubbed his eyes, anxious to find out what would happen—but the door slowly opened and Davis disappeared.

He was anxious, he was afraid. The reputation of this casino was no small thing—known as one of the darkest halls in Country Y. Access came only with a certain membership level or the ability to defeat skillfully with minimal or no loss.

In this hall, information was bought and sold at a high price. But in the end, it depended on the person.

Laced with worry and fear, he didn’t notice—he walked.

His subordinate thought for a while and made a decision: inform Ethan, increase security details. At most, it would be a face-off.

Davis stepped into the underground casino, the heavy steel door thudding shut behind him like a judge’s gavel sealing fate. Dim lights flickered above, casting elongated shadows on cracked concrete floors. Smoke curled lazily in the air, mingling with the scent of whiskey, sweat, and tension.

He stood tall—regal and composed. His hands tucked neatly into his coat pockets with an air of nonchalance, yet his gaze was piercing and cold.

A sharp pause rippled through the hall. Dice stopped mid-roll. Chips froze mid-air. All eyes turned to him, studying the stranger in tailored black.

Two bouncers began to advance, peeled away from the walls, closing in like wolves.

"Who are you?" one asked coldly, muscles rippling beneath a tight shirt, his fists already tightening.

"Dave Raven," Davis replied with a smirk that was neither arrogant nor amused—just lethal.

A murmur stirred. The name rang, but didn’t settle.

The man behind the central table, a tall figure with a slicked-back ponytail and a scar that ran from ear to jaw, froze, Sharp eyes, salt-and-pepper beard, and a face carved from years of sin and survival. His cold stare scanned Davis up and down.

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