Forced Marriage: My Wife, My Redemption-Chapter 143: Dave Ravensdale

The next day, Desmond arrived at one of the city’s most exclusive high-end clubs. It was the kind of place where people with power and money came to relax, discuss deals, or quietly pull the strings that moved companies and even governments.

Tonight, Desmond had arranged a meeting with the only person who had agreed to help him in the difficult situation he found himself in.

Ever since he took the temporary lead at the Allen Group, Desmond had built quite a network of friends and supporters—far more than he ever had back when he was just the vice president.

But with power came painful lessons. And the biggest lesson he had learned? When things go wrong, most people disappear.

In the last few weeks, Desmond had reached out to nearly every one of his high-society contacts. He had called in favors, visited them personally, and even humbled himself enough to ask for loans to stabilize his crumbling hold over the company. But no one helped. Not even one.

Most of them had smiled politely, made empty promises, and then turned their backs on him. While some encouraged him to try someone else. In summary, he learnt one lesson "you are lonely when you are down."

It was during one of these disappointing visits that he came across a name—an introduction, really. A young entrepreneur, rich, bold, and rising fast. He already owned several companies across different industries and was known to be a sharp, fearless investor. Someone who didn’t mind getting his hands dirty if the reward was worth it.

Desmond had never met him before, but something told him this might be his last shot.

Taking a deep breath, Desmond stepped out of his car in front of the club. He handed the keys to the valet and nodded briefly. Even now, he carried himself with the pride and confidence of a top-tier executive of the Allen Group. But inside, his nerves were buzzing.

As he entered the club, the rich scent of wine and expensive cigarettes filled the air. The lighting was soft, the music low and tasteful. A waiter approached him with a slight bow.

"Good evening, sir. Do you have a reservation?"

"Yes," Desmond replied with a nod.

The waiter checked a small device in his hand, scanning the list. Then, with a professional smile, he gestured. "Right this way, sir."

Desmond followed him through a short hallway, past other private lounges where hushed conversations were taking place. Finally, they stopped in front of a white door.

"We’re here," the waiter said, pulling the door open slightly and gesturing inside.

Desmond hesitated. He had expected to see someone waiting—perhaps a stern older man or younger in a suit. But the room was empty. His heart skipped a beat in fear of being disappointed.

Still, he stepped inside, nodding his thanks to the waiter, who left quickly. The room was quiet and dimly lit, furnished with a long leather couch, a glass coffee table, and a mini bar in the corner with glasses lined up.

A female server soon came in with another set of light drink and glass. Desmond took the drink from her hand, and placed it on the bar counter without tasting it. His instincts had sharpened lately, and he didn’t trust anything right away anymore.

Time passed slowly. Seconds stretched into minutes. Minutes turned into nearly an hour. Desmond’s patience wore thin. He began pacing the room, hands behind his back, eyes darting to the door every few seconds.

His heart thumped loudly in his chest, and he couldn’t calm it. Every minute that passed made him feel like a fool, like someone being tested or toyed with. Worst of it all, he feared being disappointed.

Finally, just as he was about to leave and the door creaked open.

Richard stepped in casually. Young, confident, dressed sharply in an expensive suit. He carried himself with ease, as though this room and the tension inside it belonged to him.

Desmond froze, stunned for a second. "Already leaving?" the man asked, arching an eyebrow as if amused.

Desmond straightened. "I was about to step out for a moment."

Richard walked further in without offering his name. Instead, he glanced at his wristwatch and smirked. "Sorry to keep you waiting. Something came up." He had been the one to tip him off to seek them out following Jessica’s instruction and it was fun.

Desmond didn’t respond. He didn’t like the smugness in the man’s tone, but he was in no position to complain.

Richard skillfully pulled out the file that had been sighed earlier and tossed it on the glass table. The sound made Desmond’s pulse quicken.

"Go through these documents," he said casually. "If you’re okay with the agreement, we move forward."

Desmond stared at the file for a moment, then slowly reached for it. His fingers brushed the smooth leather cover before opening it. The first page bore his name in bold, along with several figures and clauses that immediately caught his attention.

"This is..." he trailed off, reading through the first few lines.

"It’s fair," Richard said, interrupting. "But it’s not charity." Desmond looked up at him. "And if I don’t accept?"

Richard shrugged. "Then I walk. And so does your last chance at holding onto what little control you have left." Richard isn’t a fool and had known Desmond way of doing things.

Silence filled the room as Desmond looked back at the pages, flipping through them slowly. It was a business offer, but not just any kind. The young man wanted a piece of Allen Group—shares, voting rights, influence. He was offering help, but at a cost.

Desmond’s lips tightened. He hated being in this position. He hated needing help. But he had no choice. "The mysterious man he had trusted earlier—the one who promised to help him take over the Allen Group—had only made things worse.

He had dragged me into decisions that backfired, strategies that left the company vulnerable. With just one more push, the whole effort will collapse." He mused internally.

Never had he known that was the man’s dream and hope but that had kept because he couldn’t get his tap on Davis.

Desmond quietly flipped through the share transfer documents again and again. His eyes scanned every line, every clause, every number. It was a good deal—on the surface. But something didn’t sit right with him—A signature. His heart dropped into his

stomach as his eyes widened.

It is familiar, too familiar that he wouldn’t doubt it. That signature—it looked just like Davis Allen’s.

Cold sweat formed on his forehead. His fingers trembled slightly as he held the paper closer, trying to convince himself it wasn’t what he thought it was.

He cleared his throat and tried to sound calm. "You already got this signed?" he asked, his voice low and cautious, testing the waters.

Richard, who had been sipping from a glass of wine, looked up. "Yeah. Seeing the young master these days is as hard as seeing God himself, so I had it prepared in advance. When I finally got the chance, I had him sign it."

Richard’s tone was serious, almost proud. Desmond stared at him for a moment before slowly leaning back in his seat. He let out a long, shaky sigh of relief. So it wasn’t Davis who signed it. He had overreacted. For a moment, he had feared that Davis Allen, the legitimate heir of the Allen Group, was somehow back—or worse, watching him.

But Richard’s explanation reassured him. freewebnøvel.com

Of course, Davis couldn’t have signed it. Davis was gone.

Desmond gave himself a mental shake. I need to stop being so jumpy, he thought. "That man is as good as dead."

Still, the close resemblance of the signature disturbed him. It brought back everything he had been trying to forget—Davis’s accident, the scandal, the way everything had fallen into chaos right after.

Now more than ever, Desmond decided he had to act fast.He couldn’t take any risks.An idea struck him like lightning.

"It’s time to officially declare Davis dead."he muttered aloud. That way, even if Davis was alive somewhere, the legal declaration would make it almost impossible for him to reclaim anything. It would close doors, seal papers, and protect Desmond’s position.

He forgot he wasn’t the only one in the room. Richard raised his brow, his lips widening with a smirk.

With the matter decided in his heart, Desmond leaned forward and picked up the pen. He signed the documents swiftly, barely hesitating. The deal was done.

But even as he placed the pen down and handed the papers back to Richard, one thing still bothered him.

The name on the contract. Dave Ravensdale. It echoed in his mind like a whisper in the dark.

Something about it felt wrong and off. The name sent a chill down his spine, one he couldn’t explain.

Desmond shook his head, brushing the thought aside. It doesn’t matter, he told himself. I’ve signed. It’s over.