No Second Chances Ex-husband (Lauren and Ethan) novel Chapter 176

ETHAN’S POINT OF VIEW

I caught the sharp intake of breath as Sophia collapsed onto her knees, the sound startlingly fragile—like a dry twig snapping beneath a heavy step. “What…” she whispered, her voice barely audible, ragged and strained, each breath a struggle that seemed to drain the air from the room. Her hands shook uncontrollably as they rested on her thighs, the panic radiating from her chest almost palpable, as if it might burst through her skin.

“How is this even possible?” she repeated, her tone desperate, as though simply voicing the question might conjure an answer out of thin air.

But that was the cruel truth—no explanation fit. Nothing aligned with the carefully constructed, orderly world I’d spent years building around myself. Today felt like a curse, a day when every rotten piece of my life unraveled simultaneously. The devastating news, the retreating investors, the public humiliation—it all swarmed at my doorstep like a furious mob wielding torches. And the one who had ignited the blaze was a woman who had once been nothing more than a distant, insignificant shadow in my life.

I moved through the motions of practiced outrage, the kind of anger I’d honed over countless negotiations and public crises: loud, immediate, designed to intimidate and control. But beneath the thunderous facade, something colder stirred—a sharp, calculating edge. I could feel the slow, methodical gears of strategy begin to turn in the back of my mind because panic without a plan was a death sentence. Even if I forced Lauren back into my sphere—whether by coercion, bribery, or shame—making her accept a position at Black Corporation wouldn’t erase the damage she’d done. The money lost, the shattered confidence in the market—those wounds didn’t heal just because I willed them to.

Lauren Darrow had dismantled the foundation I’d painstakingly built, and she’d done it with a blog post and a handful of reporters—or so it seemed on the surface. The thought scorched me from the inside. “No,” Sophia breathed out, almost a sob. “She can’t just do this to me and walk away without consequences.”

The fire in her voice was close to righteous fury, and for once, it felt like we were on the same side. It was a small, dangerous comfort in the midst of chaos. I let her words settle over me like a bitter aftertaste. “You’re damn right,” I said, my voice softer than I intended but sharp enough to cut through the tension. “Forget her working for me. She has to pay for dragging my name through the mud. But the question is—how do you make someone like her pay?”

Sophia’s eyes narrowed, the familiar glint of tactical thinking flashing in their depths. She had always been better at turning raw anger into cold strategy; where I wanted to smash through walls, she preferred to manipulate the battlefield. “What do you mean?” she asked, steepling her fingers thoughtfully, embodying calculation itself.

I shared the thought I’d been wrestling with: the name Roman Hale slipped from my tongue like a curse. “She’s close to that bastard. If she means anything to him, he’ll shield her. And if we make the wrong move, he’ll bury us. We don’t have what he has—not the money, not the reach. Even on my best days, I couldn’t match his power.”

A tense silence followed. I hated admitting it, hated the vulnerability that came with dependence, but it was the truth. Hale operated on a different level, and the idea that Lauren might be under his protection made my skin crawl with unease.

“No,” Sophia said—not the denial I expected, but a firm boundary. “Even if there was a way to get to Lauren physically, I wouldn’t let you do it.”

Sophia’s expression didn’t soften. “Do you really believe that? When you saw her, did you see yourself? Her eyes? Her hair?” Her tone was blunt, surgical. She wanted my answer to be rational, not wishful.

I thought back to the small figure running into Lauren’s arms the other day—grey eyes, a face that wasn’t mine, tiny hands clutching at familiarity rather than blood. A cold pang of denial stabbed at me, the recognition that I’d let hope distort the facts. If the girl wasn’t mine, then everything I was willing to risk to get closer to Lauren was built on fragile sand. But if she was mine, there was a gnawing complication—a private bond that could just as easily be used against me as for me.

A slow, bitter realization crept through me: I’d been clutching at the ghost of a fatherhood that might never exist, but now it was a weapon Sophia wanted us to wield.

Disappointment, grief, and anger twisted together in a strange, destructive cocktail. I let the disappointment wash over me, sharpening my focus. My emotions were no longer chaos—they were a map to my next move. The market had stolen billions from me. The media had dragged my name through the dirt.

I lifted my head, the room suddenly feeling smaller, the walls closing in around the remnants of my empire. “Then,” I said, voice low and hard, “I guess we have a little kid to kill.”