Signed To Be His Wife - Chapter 35: Chapter 35
You are reading Signed To Be His Wife, Chapter 35: Chapter 35. Read more chapters of Signed To Be His Wife.
The quiet after victory was always the loudest.
Amara stood in front of the mirror in their Brooklyn townhouse, brushing her hair with slow strokes. Her eyes traced her reflection—calm, poised, but haunted. Her world had stopped spinning for a moment, but the aftershocks from their takedown of Specter and Clara’s final message still lingered.
“You killed the code. But the ideology lives. Truth is fragile. And so are you.”
It hadn’t been a warning. It had been a promise. One Amara couldn’t ignore.
Downstairs, Dominic poured coffee into two mugs and leaned against the counter, scrolling through encrypted emails. He hadn’t slept well. Neither had she.
He looked up when she entered the kitchen. “Morning.”
Amara nodded. “You’re up early.”
“I had Gideon run background checks on Specter’s dormant aliases. One bounced back.”
Amara’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
He handed her a printed image. “An offshore account was accessed last night. The name attached to it? Darien Hart.”
Her hands trembled. “Your father?”
Dominic nodded grimly. “Either someone’s impersonating him—or he’s alive.”
The revelation knocked the breath from her lungs. Darien Hart had supposedly died ten years ago in a yacht accident off the Amalfi Coast. But even in death, his presence loomed large over Dominic’s life—his empire, his principles, his trauma.
Amara paced the kitchen. “Why would he hide for a decade?”
Dominic’s jaw clenched. “Because he wasn’t hiding. He was watching.”
They spent the next few days reviewing old legal files, inheritance documents, and buried company records. And in those pages, they found the first cracks.
A series of land transfers in Italy. A trust fund rerouted through three fake identities. And a photo—grainy but clear enough. Darien Hart, in Morocco. Dated seven months ago.
“We need to go,” Amara said.
“To Morocco?”
“To wherever this leads. If he’s alive, he’s the architect behind all of this. He’s the ghost Clara was working for.”
Dominic hesitated. “This could be dangerous.”
She stepped forward. “More dangerous than losing everything we’ve rebuilt?”
He stared at her for a long moment, then nodded. “Pack light.”
Three days later, they touched down in Marrakech.
The city was a mosaic of ancient beauty and modern tension. Red-stone buildings shimmered under desert sun, and spice markets filled the air with unfamiliar scents. But Amara wasn’t here to tour. She was here for truth.
They checked into a boutique hotel under false names. Nolan was already on the ground, working with Gideon through encrypted satellite link. Their only lead was a private villa near the city’s outskirts—registered under a shell company traced back to the same trust fund.
That night, Dominic and Amara sat on the hotel rooftop, watching the skyline shimmer.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
She nodded. “I don’t want to be. But yes.”
He reached for her hand. “Whatever happens—this doesn’t break us.”
“Not unless we let it.”
The next morning, they made their way to the villa. Tamara, who had arrived overnight, met them near a nondescript bakery. Dressed in local attire, she blended in easily.
“You’re not going to believe this,” Tamara said, slipping them an envelope.
Inside was a surveillance photo taken two days ago: Darien Hart, stepping into the villa, escorted by two armed guards.
Amara’s pulse spiked. “He really is alive.”
Tamara nodded. “And heavily protected. Whoever’s backing him isn’t small-time.”
They formulated a plan.
Tamara and Nolan would draw security to the front of the compound. Dominic and Amara would breach the rear—get inside, find proof, and if possible, confront Darien directly.
The operation unfolded just after sunset.
Smoke grenades rolled through the front gate as Tamara triggered a car explosion three blocks away. Guards scrambled. Spotlights spun wildly.
Dominic and Amara slipped through a side entrance, cloaked in shadows.
Inside, the villa was a maze of marble halls and dim corridors.
They moved silently.
Then a voice.
“I expected you sooner.”
Amara turned. And there he was.
Darien Hart.
Alive.
Tall, silver-haired, with the same piercing eyes as Dominic. But older. Colder. A ghost reborn.
Dominic froze. “You—”
Darien smiled. “Hello, son.”
Amara stepped between them. “Why fake your death? Why now?”
Darien studied her. “Because death bought me freedom. And freedom let me build what no government would allow. Specter wasn’t a mistake—it was evolution.”
Dominic’s fists clenched. “You built something that nearly destroyed the world.”
“And yet you inherited it. Profited from it. You wear the suit of Hart Enterprises, Dominic, but you never asked where the thread was spun.”
Amara felt the tension snap.
“You were behind Clara. Behind Specter. Behind everything,” she said.
Darien nodded. “Clara was efficient. But she lacked vision. You, Amara—you’re different.”
The compliment made her sick.
“You orchestrated this. Even my contract?”
“I needed someone capable. Someone who wouldn’t run. You exceeded expectations.”
Dominic stepped forward. “And now?”
Darien’s face shifted. “Now, I offer you both a seat at the table. Help me rebuild. Guide the future. Or walk away—knowing it will rise again without you.”
Silence.
Amara stared at Dominic. “Tell him no.”
Dominic looked at his father. “You’re dead to me. For real, this time.”
Darien’s eyes hardened. “So be it.”
Alarms blared. Security had returned.
Darien fled through a hidden exit.
Dominic grabbed Amara’s hand and ran.
They escaped just as Nolan and Tamara laid cover fire from the perimeter.
A car screeched into view.
They jumped in, and Tamara slammed the accelerator.
Behind them, the villa exploded in a controlled detonation—files, tech, and Darien’s traces, all gone.
“Did we get anything?” Amara gasped.
Dominic handed her a drive.
“He wanted me to join. He gave me this as bait. Let’s make sure it destroys him instead.”
Back in Zurich, Gideon decrypted the drive.
Inside: a map of hidden Specter satellites, buried weaponized AI codes, and recorded blackmail on world leaders.
Darien had planned a rebirth.
But now, they had the blueprint to bury it.
Three days later, Amara stood before the United Nations tech committee in Geneva.
She testified. Publicly.
Clara. Specter. Darien. The protocol. The contract.
She told the truth. All of it.
And when it was over, Dominic stood beside her, his arm around her waist, his voice clear.
“She didn’t just survive my father. She destroyed him.”
A standing ovation echoed through the hall.
That night, back in Brooklyn, Amara sat in their small kitchen, sipping wine.
Dominic knelt before her.
Not with a ring.
With a contract.
But this one was different.
It was handwritten.
I, Dominic Hart, offer you a future not bound by terms, but by trust. Not by duty, but by desire. A
choice. A promise. A home.
Amara teared up.
She reached for a pen.
Signed.
“Now,” she whispered, “ask me again.”
Dominic smiled. “Amara Cole—will you be my wife?”
She nodded.
“Yes. Freely. Finally.”
Amara stood in front of the mirror in their Brooklyn townhouse, brushing her hair with slow strokes. Her eyes traced her reflection—calm, poised, but haunted. Her world had stopped spinning for a moment, but the aftershocks from their takedown of Specter and Clara’s final message still lingered.
“You killed the code. But the ideology lives. Truth is fragile. And so are you.”
It hadn’t been a warning. It had been a promise. One Amara couldn’t ignore.
Downstairs, Dominic poured coffee into two mugs and leaned against the counter, scrolling through encrypted emails. He hadn’t slept well. Neither had she.
He looked up when she entered the kitchen. “Morning.”
Amara nodded. “You’re up early.”
“I had Gideon run background checks on Specter’s dormant aliases. One bounced back.”
Amara’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
He handed her a printed image. “An offshore account was accessed last night. The name attached to it? Darien Hart.”
Her hands trembled. “Your father?”
Dominic nodded grimly. “Either someone’s impersonating him—or he’s alive.”
The revelation knocked the breath from her lungs. Darien Hart had supposedly died ten years ago in a yacht accident off the Amalfi Coast. But even in death, his presence loomed large over Dominic’s life—his empire, his principles, his trauma.
Amara paced the kitchen. “Why would he hide for a decade?”
Dominic’s jaw clenched. “Because he wasn’t hiding. He was watching.”
They spent the next few days reviewing old legal files, inheritance documents, and buried company records. And in those pages, they found the first cracks.
A series of land transfers in Italy. A trust fund rerouted through three fake identities. And a photo—grainy but clear enough. Darien Hart, in Morocco. Dated seven months ago.
“We need to go,” Amara said.
“To Morocco?”
“To wherever this leads. If he’s alive, he’s the architect behind all of this. He’s the ghost Clara was working for.”
Dominic hesitated. “This could be dangerous.”
She stepped forward. “More dangerous than losing everything we’ve rebuilt?”
He stared at her for a long moment, then nodded. “Pack light.”
Three days later, they touched down in Marrakech.
The city was a mosaic of ancient beauty and modern tension. Red-stone buildings shimmered under desert sun, and spice markets filled the air with unfamiliar scents. But Amara wasn’t here to tour. She was here for truth.
They checked into a boutique hotel under false names. Nolan was already on the ground, working with Gideon through encrypted satellite link. Their only lead was a private villa near the city’s outskirts—registered under a shell company traced back to the same trust fund.
That night, Dominic and Amara sat on the hotel rooftop, watching the skyline shimmer.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
She nodded. “I don’t want to be. But yes.”
He reached for her hand. “Whatever happens—this doesn’t break us.”
“Not unless we let it.”
The next morning, they made their way to the villa. Tamara, who had arrived overnight, met them near a nondescript bakery. Dressed in local attire, she blended in easily.
“You’re not going to believe this,” Tamara said, slipping them an envelope.
Inside was a surveillance photo taken two days ago: Darien Hart, stepping into the villa, escorted by two armed guards.
Amara’s pulse spiked. “He really is alive.”
Tamara nodded. “And heavily protected. Whoever’s backing him isn’t small-time.”
They formulated a plan.
Tamara and Nolan would draw security to the front of the compound. Dominic and Amara would breach the rear—get inside, find proof, and if possible, confront Darien directly.
The operation unfolded just after sunset.
Smoke grenades rolled through the front gate as Tamara triggered a car explosion three blocks away. Guards scrambled. Spotlights spun wildly.
Dominic and Amara slipped through a side entrance, cloaked in shadows.
Inside, the villa was a maze of marble halls and dim corridors.
They moved silently.
Then a voice.
“I expected you sooner.”
Amara turned. And there he was.
Darien Hart.
Alive.
Tall, silver-haired, with the same piercing eyes as Dominic. But older. Colder. A ghost reborn.
Dominic froze. “You—”
Darien smiled. “Hello, son.”
Amara stepped between them. “Why fake your death? Why now?”
Darien studied her. “Because death bought me freedom. And freedom let me build what no government would allow. Specter wasn’t a mistake—it was evolution.”
Dominic’s fists clenched. “You built something that nearly destroyed the world.”
“And yet you inherited it. Profited from it. You wear the suit of Hart Enterprises, Dominic, but you never asked where the thread was spun.”
Amara felt the tension snap.
“You were behind Clara. Behind Specter. Behind everything,” she said.
Darien nodded. “Clara was efficient. But she lacked vision. You, Amara—you’re different.”
The compliment made her sick.
“You orchestrated this. Even my contract?”
“I needed someone capable. Someone who wouldn’t run. You exceeded expectations.”
Dominic stepped forward. “And now?”
Darien’s face shifted. “Now, I offer you both a seat at the table. Help me rebuild. Guide the future. Or walk away—knowing it will rise again without you.”
Silence.
Amara stared at Dominic. “Tell him no.”
Dominic looked at his father. “You’re dead to me. For real, this time.”
Darien’s eyes hardened. “So be it.”
Alarms blared. Security had returned.
Darien fled through a hidden exit.
Dominic grabbed Amara’s hand and ran.
They escaped just as Nolan and Tamara laid cover fire from the perimeter.
A car screeched into view.
They jumped in, and Tamara slammed the accelerator.
Behind them, the villa exploded in a controlled detonation—files, tech, and Darien’s traces, all gone.
“Did we get anything?” Amara gasped.
Dominic handed her a drive.
“He wanted me to join. He gave me this as bait. Let’s make sure it destroys him instead.”
Back in Zurich, Gideon decrypted the drive.
Inside: a map of hidden Specter satellites, buried weaponized AI codes, and recorded blackmail on world leaders.
Darien had planned a rebirth.
But now, they had the blueprint to bury it.
Three days later, Amara stood before the United Nations tech committee in Geneva.
She testified. Publicly.
Clara. Specter. Darien. The protocol. The contract.
She told the truth. All of it.
And when it was over, Dominic stood beside her, his arm around her waist, his voice clear.
“She didn’t just survive my father. She destroyed him.”
A standing ovation echoed through the hall.
That night, back in Brooklyn, Amara sat in their small kitchen, sipping wine.
Dominic knelt before her.
Not with a ring.
With a contract.
But this one was different.
It was handwritten.
I, Dominic Hart, offer you a future not bound by terms, but by trust. Not by duty, but by desire. A
choice. A promise. A home.
Amara teared up.
She reached for a pen.
Signed.
“Now,” she whispered, “ask me again.”
Dominic smiled. “Amara Cole—will you be my wife?”
She nodded.
“Yes. Freely. Finally.”
End of Signed To Be His Wife Chapter 35. Continue reading Chapter 36 or return to Signed To Be His Wife book page.