Forced Marriage: My Wife, My Redemption

Chapter 319: A plan that almost succeed...

In the suite, with only the hum of the air conditioner to break the silence, Davis sat motionless, his gaze locked onto the laptop screen. The glow of the display painted sharp shadows on his face, accentuating the tight clench of his jaw. He hit the replay.

The audio crackled before a voice came through again—confident, calculated, and sinister. A woman. Her tone was crisp, laced with arrogance, and each word echoed with the chilling calm of someone who knew she was in control.

This confirms his suspicion, someone was trying to sabotage the fashion show, and the heist wasn’t random, rather was well thought out but then Lady Bright’s true identity had always remained hidden. What went wrong? He mused. noveldrama

Davis’s fists clenched so tightly his knuckles paled, veins bulging under his skin. His chest rose and fell, but slowly and dangerously just like a storm held on the edge of release. His eyes darkened with every word as he tried to piece together the voice.

He replayed the voice in his head, analyzing the accent, the phrasing, the pauses. She was overconfident. Probably someone with a grudge. But how deep did this plan run? And who was she?

He hit play again, isolating the parts where her voice dipped and slurred, where she paused mid-sentence.

Behind him, Ethan ended a call and returned to his seat, eyes trained on Davis. "Security’s been arranged as per your orders. Guards have been stationed at all the primary exits. I’ve also locked down the surveillance feeds."

Davis nodded slightly, but his gaze remained fixed. Then, almost as an afterthought, he asked, "Do you think the voice sounds familiar?"

Ethan frowned, pondering. "Hard to tell. She’s clearly disguising her tone."

He leaned forward and paused the audio, running it back once more, this time slowing the playback. "There’s something in her voice," he murmured. "An accent. No... a slur. Like she’s masking something."

Ethan stared at him for a while, trying to recall the voice. Noting his pause, Davis stretched out his hand again and replayed the recorded conversation, this time the tone was slower, elongated—he had modified the speed.

They both listened with rapt attention and in silence, every syllable hanging in the air like a knife..

As the voice paused mid-sentence, Davis’s eyes widened with recognition, his breath hitched as a particular figure flashed through his mind.

Like a mist clearing away, he noticed her characteristic attitude of slurring words

That slur... that tone...

His mind conjured an image, unbidden. A familiar face twisted in a smirk, leaning lazily against a car, spitting words like venom without raising her voice.

"Tricia Watts," Davis growled through gritted teeth.

Hearing him mention the name, Ethan snapped his gaze to meet his, confusion riddled his face as he analyzed the meaning.

"What? But—Tricia? You mean...?"

Davis didn’t reply. His eyes narrowed instead, burning holes into the screen. Silence settled between them, thick and taut.

Sensing he wouldn’t get an immediate explanation, "I’ll check on the tracker placed on the manager," he muttered.

With a few swift keystrokes, the screen lit up with a blinking red dot.

"There," Ethan pointed. "He’s moving."

Yet Davis took a deep breath, his voice coming out cold and decisive. "Follow up and monitor his next move."

Ethan swiftly shared the information that appeared on the screen with Davis.

A call came in on Davis’s phone. He answered, voice clipped. "Yes?"

A voice filtered over "Sir, the manager came downstairs, seemingly for a spot check. But his movements seem suspicious—he keeps glancing around the halls."

"Follow him discreetly," Davis instructed. "Discover where the materials are stored and then hold him down."

~Down stairs~

In the hotel’s dim hallway, the manager moved like a man walking a tightrope—eyes darting from one corner to another, posture rigid. His fingers twitched at his sides. Sweat pearled at his temples.

Every step he took seemed burdened with uncertainty. Then, from behind a column, a figure stepped out. Slim, sharply dressed in black. They exchanged a nod before the manager approached.

"What are her instructions?" the manager whispered, barely moving his lips.

The young man didn’t flinch. "Everything is set. We move everything now."

"Now?" The manager’s eyes widened. Panic flared in his chest. "You expect me to move those boxes now? In this light?"

"Unless," the young man’s voice dropped to a deadly whisper, "you want to blow your cover?"

The manager’s throat bobbed with a hard swallow. His job... his life... it was already hanging by a thread. And now this?

He remembered Davis canceling his visit to the surveillance room. Was that a coincidence—or a trap? The thought coiled in his gut like a serpent.

"It’s not that I want to blow my cover," he said nervously, casting another look around the corridor. "But the timing—it’s wrong. Too much risk."

The other man didn’t answer. He merely gave a cold look that said all he needed to. There would be no excuses.

Suddenly the hallway felt colder. The manager couldn’t shake the gnawing sensation that someone—something—was watching. A creeping dread clawed at his spine, but no matter how much he looked around, there was no one in sight.

"I feel..." he trailed off, shaking his head. "Never mind. Let’s do it."

He squared his shoulders, forcing a facade of calm, and with long strides, led the way down the hall. They arrived at a concealed door. A simple twist of the handle. A soft click. The door creaked open.

Inside were stacked boxes—sealed, unsealed, marked with logos of luxury. The materials.

Together, they began the transfer, lifting and moving them toward the exit staircase, steps quiet but tense. The walls felt like they were closing in. Neither spoke. Every footstep was a silent countdown.

Then—

From the shadows near the staircase, figures emerged.

They moved in unison—dark-clothed, broad-shouldered, professional.

The manager froze, his eyes locking onto unfamiliar faces.

His breath hitched. He just hoped this to be an illusion.

The box slipped from his hands and thudded to the ground, its lid cracking open to reveal silks and rhinestones glittering under the dim lights.

"Don’t move," came a calm but firm voice. One of Davis’s men stepped forward, gun drawn but low. "Hands where I can see them."

The young man with him made a sudden move, but before he could react, a second guard pinned him down with a swift, practiced grip.

The manager backed into the wall, shaking. "I—I didn’t know... I mean, I—"

"No excuses," the agent interrupted, slipping handcuffs from his belt. "You’ll explain everything to Mr. Allen directly."

As they secured the two men, the hallway buzzed again. Davis arrived seconds later, his eyes sharp, dark and colder than ice.

He surveyed the scene, then walked over to the opened box. His hand brushed against the shimmering fabric inside, and his jaw clenched.

Turning slowly, he faced the manager. "So this is how you run this hotel? On schemes?"

The manager trembled. "I... I was forced. And was threatened—"

Davis raised a hand. Silence.

"Save it."

With a sharp gesture, he signaled Ethan. "Get the full list of anyone he contacted. Cross-check the surveillance gaps over the last seventy-two hours."

Then to the guards: "Take them to the secure room. No communication, no visitors. It will be handled after the event."

As they were led away, Davis lingered. His eyes scanned the empty hallway, the fallen box, the wide open door housing the remaining accessories and couldn’t help shivering at a plan that almost succeeded.

Almost.

He exhaled slowly.