No Second Chances Ex-husband (Lauren and Ethan) novel Chapter 187

walked downstairs toward the living room where Sophia was already seated, the afternoon light slicing through the curtains and casting long, thin shadows across the rug. The house hummed with the ordinary sounds of a home kept clean for appearances – the soft tick of a clock on the mantel, the distant murmur of a television left on in another room. I took a seat next to her with a small, satisfied sigh and let the moment sit between us, heavy and deliberate.

“Today is quite a day,” I said, letting the words roll out slowly and controlled. “A good one for us. I never expected us to get that little brat so easy.”

Sophia’s expression was composed but there was a glint of suppressed excitement in her eyes. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind an ear and smiled in that way she used to when she wanted me to see the cunning behind her calm. “Neither did 1,” she said. “To be honest, I was considering finding another way. I didn’t think you’d go get her yourself. I thought we’d hire men like professionals and hope they didn’t fail and we didn’t keep losing money.”

The smirk at the corner of her mouth made something thin and cold coil in my chest. I leaned back slightly, fingers drumming lightly on the arm of the chair. “Why would I do that when every single fund we have is budgeted for something?” I asked, the rhetorical question meant to remind her and myself of the meticulous. planning that got us here. “I had my reasons for going myself.”

Sophia’s eyes narrowed, an attempt to steady the conversation in a direction she preferred. “But that was risky,” she said. “You didn’t tell me when you left. What if Lauren had been home and called the cops or screamed? If you got caught, what would you have done? Because I certainly know what I would have done.”

Her tone held a sting of accusation, as if she expected to be betrayed by circumstance rather than by choice. I turned to her fully, letting the question sit between us like an accusation. “And what would you have done?” I asked, soft but sharp.

Her answer came without hesitation. “Taken my son and left, of course. You don’t expect me to stay by your side while you rot in a cell. I can’t even risk being accused of being an accomplice as your wife.”

The words landed like a slap. For a moment I simply watched her – the practiced poise, the carefully maintained posture. Did she really think I’d be surprised? Hadn’t I seen this in a thousand curt smiles and tidy acts of self–preservation before? It had taken a long time to understand her. Sophia had always been what she is now: beautiful, composed, and pragmatic to the point of cruelty. She shined her teeth when everything was fine and left when the thunder started. The thought that she would abandon me if the worst came was not new; still, hearing it voiced stung.

But I was equally disappointed and clear–eyed. If she would run at the first real danger, then she was a liability, not a partner. I needed someone who’d stand through the storm, not someone who chased the rainbow. The calculus of survival is a sparse thing: keep what serves, discard what doesn’t.

I let the silence stretch long enough that she would feel it. The house seemed smaller now, the air thinner. ” Don’t give me that look,” she snapped, impatient. “You didn’t tell me you were moving in. If they’d traced anything back to me, we’d both be in trouble.”

1/2

I didn’t raise my voice. It wasn’t necessary. “I’m not in the mood for pointless arguments, Sophia,” I said, eyes fixed on the painting on the wall ahead of me. The image was a pleasant landscape, pastoral and innocuous the kind of thing people buy to convince themselves their world is simple and under control. I used it as an anchor while my brain sifted through the next moves. “A lot has happened today. Cassandra got arrested. That means Roman found out she was working for me. She’s of no further use. It’s better she remains in jail.”

Sophia leaned forward a fraction, eager to pivot the conversation. “Cassandra in jail isn’t what we should be discussing right now,” she said quickly. “A few days ago we agreed: when we had the opportunity, we were going to kill Lauren’s daughter. Well, now we have her. The opportunity is sitting right in front of us – so why hasn’t anything been done?”

Her impatience had a sharp edge. She wanted the conclusion, the act that would settle our score and feed the fantasy that had been warming in whispers for months. Around us, the house was quiet enough that every breath sounded louder than it should.

I didn’t reply right away. I stared at the wall, at the painting, letting the colors blur into an abstract pool. My thoughts were a slow, cold calculus rather than the white–hot flare Sophia desired. She had a point superficially logical, the child was in our possession and we could enact a final step and watch Lauren unravel. But there was pleasure, too, more subtle than adrenaline and more destructive, the taste of watching her unravel slowly, deliberately, until the collapse was complete and delicious.

“Just a little more time,” I said quietly, feeling the words like a pledge. The phrase was small, almost tender, but it carried an undercurrent of menace.

Sophia’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean by that?” she asked, voice sharper now.

I turned my gaze back to her, letting the slow smile I had practiced crease the edges of my mouth. The smile told stories without words, patience, control, and a confidence that whatever suffering I administered would be administered with precision. “If I kill the girl now,” I said, taking a breath as if delivering a lesson, “where’s the fun in that? I need Lauren to know I’m with her. I need her to see that I can touch the thing she loves most. Then her own mind will do the work for me, she will put herself together and break herself apart, replaying it until she cannot breathe. After I watch that happen, I’ll deliver the final blow by showing her what she was so afraid of.”

The sentence landed exactly where I wanted it, slow, surgical, inevitable. I felt the small warmth of satisfaction that comes from shaping fear into art. What I wanted wasn’t merely the removal of a child; it was the exact placement of pain in a strategy that would turn me from victim in the public eye into the instrument of something far worse the unravelling of a life that had once been too bright to ignore the shadows.

Sophia’s face registered a flicker of something – maybe disappointment, maybe a flash of envy for my composure. She wanted the rush, the immediate enactment. I wanted the architecture of destruction. The difference between us, brutally exposed, was that I knew how to wait.