Signed To Be His Wife - Chapter 9: Chapter 9

Morning light spilled through the villa’s wide windows, casting golden shadows across the marble floor. But even the sun couldn’t chase away the weight that settled heavily over Amara’s chest.
The message from the night before echoed in her mind: You’re too close. Turn back. Or the next photo won’t be from your past—it’ll be from your funeral.
It hadn’t been a bluff.
Amara had spent the night replaying every scene, every face, every detail she might’ve missed. Someone had been orchestrating her involvement long before Dominic, long before she even graduated law school. She didn’t believe in coincidences anymore.
Her door creaked open.
“Amara?” Dominic’s voice was gentle, but guarded.
She turned, facing him. “I got another message. Last night.”
His expression shifted immediately. “What did it say?”
She handed him her phone.
Dominic’s eyes narrowed as he read the message, then looked up. “They know we’re close to something. This isn’t just a threat—it’s fear.”
Amara crossed her arms. “Then let’s make them more afraid. I want to help. Not just sit here while everyone protects me like some porcelain doll.”
Dominic gave a brief nod, pride flickering in his gaze. “Good. Because I have a plan.”
Dominic gathered Amara, Nolan, and Inspector Hale later that morning in the study. Maps, encrypted USB drives, and printed files were spread across the table like puzzle pieces.
“We’re going to set a trap,” Dominic began. “We need to draw them out—but carefully.”
Nolan nodded. “Agreed. But it has to be believable. We leak a fake report that Amara found the original bank routing files Elena was searching for. We let it reach the mole.”
“Clara,” Amara said bitterly. “She’s the one connecting both sides.”
Hale tapped his pen. “If Clara believes Amara has the files, she’ll act. And she won’t come herself. She’ll send whoever she’s working with.”
Dominic turned to Amara. “You’ll need to go back to the city. We’ll set up a safe house, fully monitored. You pretend to be alone. Leave a digital trail. We’ll be watching everything.”
Amara’s throat tightened. “So I’m bait.”
Dominic’s eyes softened. “You’re the only person they want right now. That makes you powerful, not helpless.”
She nodded slowly. “Then let’s do it.”
The next day, Amara found herself in a sleek, empty apartment in the city’s upper district. It was elegantly furnished but soulless—like a show home staged for a client who never arrived.
Dominic was nearby in a hidden surveillance van, monitoring her every move with Hale and Nolan.
Amara logged into a secure system and opened a falsified financial file—just enough truth mixed in with fake data to make it convincing.
Within an hour, the bait was live.
Now, they waited.
Hours dragged on.
Amara sat on the edge of the sofa, pretending to work. Her heartbeat was slow but steady. She wasn’t the same girl who walked into Hart Enterprises weeks ago.
At 3:17 PM, there was a knock.
Three times. Sharp. Precise.
Her fingers froze above the keyboard.
Dominic’s voice crackled in her earpiece. “Don’t open the door. Nolan is on the move.”
The doorbell rang next. Then silence.
Suddenly, a small, almost invisible gas vent in the ceiling shifted.
Amara’s eyes widened. “They’re using knockout gas!”
She grabbed the emergency mask hidden beneath the table—just like Dominic had trained her—and slipped it on. Within seconds, she heard the lock click.
Someone was breaking in.
In the surveillance van, Dominic cursed. “Go, go, go!”
Nolan and a backup team burst from the van and stormed the building. Dominic followed.
Inside the apartment, two masked intruders stepped in, guns raised. Amara lay flat on the floor, playing unconscious. But beneath her stillness, her mind was sharp.
She listened as one whispered, “She’s out. Get the drive.”
The second crouched near her laptop.
That’s when the door crashed open.
“Down!” Nolan’s voice thundered.
A flashbang lit up the room. The intruders scrambled, but they were outnumbered and caught.
Dominic rushed to Amara, pulling off her mask.
“I’m okay,” she gasped. “I did everything right.”
“You did better than right,” he said, holding her face in his hands. “You were perfect.”
An hour later, in a secure interrogation room, Dominic and Hale stood behind the one-way mirror, watching one of the masked men in cuffs.
“We traced his prints,” Nolan said, entering the room. “His name’s Marcus Flint. Former military. Was dishonorably discharged two years ago. Guess who signed the letter of recommendation for his discharge?”
Dominic raised a brow. “Clara?”
“Clara.”
Hale smirked. “She’s been cleaning house for someone. And she’s good at covering her tracks. But not good enough.”
Amara walked in. “What now?”
“We make her nervous,” Dominic said. “She thinks this mission failed. She won’t stop. But if we’re lucky, she’ll lead us straight to whoever is behind all of this.”
Later that night, Dominic sat with Amara on the balcony of the villa. The sea whispered below them, a strange kind of comfort after the chaos.
“You were brave today,” he said.
Amara leaned back in her chair. “I was terrified.”
“Being brave doesn’t mean you’re not scared. It means you acted despite it.”
She smiled faintly. “That sounds like something Elena would say.”
Dominic nodded. “She used to. And for a long time, I didn’t listen. I thought protecting people meant controlling everything. But I was wrong.”
She turned to him. “What does it mean then?”
“It means standing with them. Even when things get messy.”
Their eyes met. The tension shifted—warmer now, more intimate.
Dominic reached for her hand. “Amara, I don’t know where this ends. I can’t promise you safety. But I want to promise you truth. And loyalty.”
She swallowed. “That means more to me than safety.”
Their fingers intertwined.
“I’m not falling for you because you’re strong,” she whispered. “I’m falling because you see me. Not the maid. Not the poor girl. Me.”
Dominic leaned closer. “Then let me see all of you.”
Their lips met—this time without hesitation, without fear.
And somewhere in the shadows of the city, Clara watched a flickering video feed.
Her hand hovered over a red but
ton.
“It’s time,” she said.
Behind her, a figure stepped from the dark.
Male. Powerful. Scarred.
“The girl lives one more week,” he growled. “Then end it.”