HIS REGRET (Ex-Husband wants Me Back) novel Chapter 394

**Shadows of the Past – By Emma Clarke**
**Chapter 394**

“Right this way, Mr. Daven.”

One of the guards, his posture rigid and watchful, motioned toward the dimly lit area where the man was being detained. Daven strode forward with a purposeful gait, exuding an air of unwavering confidence, while Arsen remained tethered to his phone, fingers dancing across the screen in a frantic attempt to defer a meeting that loomed ominously just ten minutes away.

“He hasn’t uttered a single word?” Daven inquired, his tone steady, betraying none of the impatience that simmered beneath the surface.

“No, sir.” The guard exhaled softly, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice. “Even after we pressed him hard. Painfully hard. He’s proving to be quite the loyal lapdog.”

“Fetch me a clean shirt,” Daven commanded, his gaze unwavering and fixed on the corridor that stretched out before him, as if peering into a future that was yet to unfold.

The atmosphere inside the warehouse shifted dramatically the moment the steel door slammed shut behind them. The resounding clang echoed ominously, reverberating through the narrow space, as if sealing away any remnants of hope or escape. The acrid scent of metal and engine oil clung to the air, thickening it and making each breath feel like a struggle against an unseen weight.

This was not merely a warehouse for equipment; it was a forsaken relic, a place steeped in neglect and forgotten memories.

Daven paused, taking a few deliberate steps closer to the man who sat bound before him. He studied him intently, a figure he had encountered not long ago. His expression was devoid of anger, replaced instead by a chilling coolness, akin to a judge weighing the gravity of a life-altering decision. He began to remove his blazer, loosening the perfectly knotted tie at his throat with deliberate slowness. One by one, he unbuttoned his cufflinks, rolling his sleeves up just enough to reveal the taut muscles beneath. Each movement was methodical and precise, exuding an air of calm authority that signaled the gravity of what was about to transpire.

One of the guards efficiently gathered the discarded clothing, while Arsen positioned himself near the door, arms crossed in a stance that spoke of both vigilance and concern. Two other guards stood sentinel on either side of the room, their stillness reminiscent of statues carved from stone.

“Mr. Daven,” Arsen murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, “I can only grant you ten minutes. The meeting cannot be postponed any longer.”

Daven acknowledged the urgency with a brief nod, his focus unwavering as he locked his eyes onto the man tethered to the metal chair. Before them lay a rusted steel table, cluttered with files that contained the man’s personal details, each paper a testament to his life. Daven pulled a chair closer, positioning it squarely across from the man, establishing a psychological barrier that was as palpable as the physical one.

Now they were face to face.

“You know,” Daven began, his voice low and almost monotone, “I always provide people with an opportunity to speak.”

The man lifted his chin defiantly, a crooked smile flickering at the edges of his mouth as he leaned back, seemingly unperturbed by the situation. “And I choose to remain silent.”

A faint smile graced Daven’s lips, a fleeting expression that hinted at amusement. He glanced at the watch on his left wrist, the ticking seconds a reminder of Arsen’s warning—time was a luxury he could scarcely afford when dealing with this insufferable individual.

“I despise wasting time,” Daven continued, his voice steady, “especially when there are numerous others I need to attend to today.”

He leaned forward, just enough to ensure the man truly saw him, the intensity of his gaze unwavering.

“How much compensation were you demanding that night?” Daven asked abruptly, catching the man off guard.

The man flinched, surprise flickering across his features. “What does that have to do with anything now?”

“Answer me.”

“More than I should have,” he finally snapped, the defiance in his tone wavering.

He coughed violently, blood trickling from the corner of his lips, a stark reminder of the consequences of his choices.

Daven observed him, his jaw tightening momentarily, a flicker of regret flashing in his eyes before vanishing as quickly as it had come. “Now,” Daven said, his voice calm and collected, “let’s try this once more.”

He settled back into his chair, composed and unruffled, seemingly unperturbed by the man’s pained expression. Blood continued to seep from the corner of the man’s mouth; the unmistakable sign of something broken within. A gash had formed at his temple where it had collided with the unforgiving edge of the table.

Did Daven feel any remorse? Not in the slightest. “Who sent you?”

Silence enveloped the room, broken only by the man’s ragged breathing, a testament to his growing fear.

Daven leaned both hands on the table, his blue eyes devoid of warmth, now sharp and predatory. “I know you’re merely a runner,” he stated, his voice low and deliberate. “And runners are compensated for one thing—instigating trouble. I have no tolerance for troublemakers.”

The man let out a hoarse, bitter laugh. “You’re… too preoccupied for something this trivial.” He spat defiantly.

Daven’s gaze hardened, his patience wearing thin. “To you, the chaos you’ve caused may seem trivial. To me, it’s about the people whose voices I must heed.” He leaned in closer, his voice a whisper that dripped with intensity. “And I won’t allow anyone to toy with them merely to distract me.”

The man growled under his breath, the bravado slipping away.

“Talk,” Daven murmured, his tone almost a whisper, laced with an undercurrent of menace. “Or I will ensure you regret your choice of silence.”