Forced Marriage: My Wife, My Redemption

Chapter 297: Why didn’t you send her home?

Davis slowly walked down the stairs after a refreshing bath. Dressed in a dark, crisp shirt and black pants, his hair damp and pushed back, his eyes closed and the tension in his shoulder palpable.

Now that Jessica was finally asleep, he could fully face the situation that had been waiting for him downstairs.

His sharp eyes scanned the living room from the top of the stairs. The house staff had long vanished, having wisely removed themselves from the unsettling presence and gruesome sight of the men tied up below.

Standing nearby was Ethan, alongside another guard whom Davis presumed Ethan had summoned.

Davis’ expression was cold and detached, void of emotion, as he descended the staircase—an action he had believed was impossible just a year ago. With several doctors declaring his situation beyond remedy, he has lost the hope and the will to walk again.

Yet, It was almost ironic: his first steps on this staircase back into action were not for his own decision, but to settle a score for the wife he was forced to marry as a crippled man. She had gradually become a presence, he couldn’t live without.

Each step he took down the stairs carried the weight of a reckoning and a score to settle. His appearance spelled doom for the intruders.

Jessica had been attacked not on the street, but in the one place that should have been safest. That alone made his blood boil, his fist clenched by his side.

If there was ever a moment to be reminded of his failures, this was it.

"Has my home really become so vulnerable that enemies can walk in without fear?" he thought bitterly.

He couldn’t deny it. Things had spiraled out of control—because he had let them. He had accepted defeat when he should have fought. He had stepped back when he should have stood tall.

His thoughts flickered to the days after his discharge from the hospital and his thoughts drifted to Ethan, his ever-loyal assistant, he had practically been the one that dragged him forward.

He had been more than an assistant. He had been a rock during the hardest times. He had scolded, pushed, and sometimes even led where Davis had faltered.

Looking at him now, still handling matters without needing instruction, Davis felt a deep sense of gratitude.

Ethan’s past words echoed in his mind—taunts laced with concern, the determined glares filled with worry, and quiet loyalty that never wavered.

Scenes of Ethan’s frustrations, sarcasm, even the occasional outright insult passed through Davis’s mind. Yet, through it all, Ethan had stayed. Loyal. Resolute.

Davis felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude. He made a mental note to have Jessica reward Ethan properly. He deserved more than just silent appreciation.

He didn’t know what good deeds he might have done in a past life to deserve someone like Ethan. His words now echoed in Davis’s mind, clear and motivating: "The world won’t wait for you."

A rare warmth settled over him—a sense of being cared for.

The moment Davis stepped into the living room, a sharp tension cut through the air. The bound men on the floor instinctively recoiled, recognizing the icy authority that had just entered as the coldness and tension that swept into the room with his presence made the air heavy.

"Have they said anything useful?" Davis asked, settling into the couch. His tone was calm but carried weight.

Ethan shook his head silently, then turned to the wine cabinet. He selected a bottle and a decanter, poured the wine with practiced precision, and handed Davis a glass.

Seeing Davis seated again like an emperor brought a sense of pride and relief to Ethan. He had witnessed this man at his pinnacle and through his deepest lows. Watching him rise once more felt like witnessing a phoenix in rebirth.

Davis slowly picked up the glass of wine, swirling it in his hand. his gaze was locked on the motion of the liquid, yet his mind was on the trembling men before him, his frosty eyes flickering every so often back to the men. noveldrama

They were still trying to figure out what method the woman had used to cripple them in just a few minutes of fighting.

Yet, they couldn’t understand how she had incapacitated them so quickly. They were trained, experienced, and yet within moments of facing her, their limbs had failed them.

Her injuries were minor, they had failed to hurt her in any meaningful way.

Her arm had only been cut by a mere slash by shards of glass.

But their own condition? Paralyzed, broken, unable to escape.

They would have left the building before Davis returned, but their legs had become unresponsive.

Under careful analysis of her skills, aura, and elegance—even in battle—one conclusion stood out: She is a Mafia queen.

"Why are you here?" Davis asked, his voice low, dangerously calm snapping them out of their thoughts.

The men avoided his gaze, eyes darting anywhere but in his direction, searching for any possible escape.

"I won’t repeat myself," Davis warned.

Still, they said nothing.

"Tie them tighter."

At once, Ethan and the other guard obeyed. Thick ropes were wound more firmly around the men’s limbs. Any attempts they made at self-harm to escape interrogation had already failed. Now, they were at his mercy.

Davis didn’t need to raise his voice. His silence, paired with methodical acts of torture, spoke volumes.

For hours, they were broken down. Their sweat-soaked bodies trembled, muscles spasming from pain, yet they received no sympathy. They had dared to cross the line.

Finally, after several hours of torture, their lives hanging by a thread, one finally broke. His voice cracked, gasping through clenched teeth, "We were only assigned the duty. Every transaction was carried out by our superior."

"Who is your superior?" Davis asked, his voice now a razor.

They hesitated, and Davis stood, his shadow casting long over them like that of a looming specter.

"The Night Merchant!" one of them shrieked. "The deal was brokered by someone from your own family. We don’t know more."

A knowing glint flashed through Davis’s eyes as they narrowed, a glint of clarity sparking within. Every suspicion pointed towards his uncle—Desmond.

He returned to his seat and downed the remaining wine in a single gulp.

"Call the police chief. Hand them over. Include the records of their crimes."

The captives gasped in horror, faces pale. The police meant death, or worse. They fell to their knees, begging for mercy. But Davis had none left to offer.

"Meet me in the study when you’re done," he said, standing and turning his back to them.

The groans and desperate pleas followed him as he exited the room, but he ignored them. The young guard who had assisted Ethan looked after him, stunned and curious as he watched him walk away. .

Davis pushed the door of the study open. With a soft click of the switch, the lights came on, bathing the room in a calm, ambient glow.

He moved to the large mahogany desk and sat, pulling his laptop closer. Files lay stacked beside him, and a photo of Jessica in a silver frame stood prominently where his eyes could find it at every glance.

A notification buzzed on his phone. He picked it up and read the message:

"Davis, the shareholders’ meeting is scheduled for tomorrow at 10 a.m. Now that you’re back, your presence is expected."

Davis read the message slowly, his gaze lingering. A cold smirk curled his lips. He hadn’t expected Desmond to be the one sending him that message.

His mind raced, wondering what kind of game his uncle might be playing this time.

He exited the message and dialed a number. It was picked up on the first ring.

"Richard, why didn’t you send her home?"