No Second Chances Ex-husband (Lauren and Ethan) novel Chapter 198

**He Chased 198**
**CHAPTER 0198**

**LAUREN’S POV**

“Backup has arrived, Ethan. Your wife Sophia is currently under arrest, along with all your men. There’s no escape route for you now; just let her go, man.” The inspector’s voice sliced through the tension in the backyard, sharp and commanding. A wave of uniformed officers flooded into the yard, rifles cradled in their arms, boots thumping heavily against the patio floor. Their heads were bent over radios, issuing commands and receiving terse acknowledgments. For a fleeting moment, the scene resembled something out of a meticulously crafted film—precision, authority—but this was no cinematic illusion. This was my daughter’s life hanging in the balance.

Ethan stood there, unmoved. A strange expression flickered across his face, one that could almost be interpreted as relief, and it churned my stomach in a way I couldn’t articulate. “I’ve already made my decision,” he stated, his tone disturbingly calm, as if he were reciting lines from a script he had rehearsed countless times. “There’s no escaping this since the moment you barged in here. But even if I end up in prison, I’ll do so knowing that the bitch who ruined my life is suffering.”

“Please, reconsider,” I pleaded, my voice barely above a whisper, trembling with desperation. “This won’t bring you the satisfaction you think it will. Just don’t do this.”

My eyes darted around, taking in the expressions of those surrounding me—Roman, the investigator, the inspector—and then back to Ethan. It was clear there was no opening, no miracle waiting to happen. If anyone attempted to rush him, the gun pressed against Aria’s temple would be the first to react. I could see the tension in his jaw, the muscle in his neck taut with the effort of holding back his rage. He was not bluffing. Not now.

Aria’s gaze met mine, wide and terrified, her small frame trembling in his grasp like a fragile bird ensnared in a fist. I could barely hear the pitiful sound that escaped her lips, “Mummy,” and it felt as if my heart were being squeezed in a vice, threatening to stop altogether. Every fiber of my being screamed to leap at him, to wrest her from his grip, but I understood the precariousness of our situation; one misstep from anyone could lead to a gunshot that would shatter our world in the most horrific way imaginable.

Then, inexplicably, my eyes fell to his feet.

He was wearing slippers. Slippers. The absurdity of the detail felt out of place amid the chaos, yet it was undeniably real—soft fabric, worn at the heel, a careless choice from a man caught off guard. Perhaps he hadn’t had the time to put on proper shoes when the officers stormed in. This trivial, almost ridiculous observation ignited a flicker of hope within me, like a match struck in the dark.

If Aria could just step on his toes with enough force, it might cause him to reflexively loosen his grip. Pain has a way of making people drop what they hold. It was a dangerous gamble, yes, and it would require Aria to execute my silent signal without letting panic take over. If she pressed too softly, she might only irritate him. If she pressed too hard and he jerked in response, who knew what chaos could ensue? But I had to try something rather than remain a passive observer.

“This is your final chance, Ethan. Let the girl go,” Roman said, his voice steady, laced with authority.

Roman’s words provided the distraction I desperately needed. Ethan’s gaze flicked toward him, narrowing as he assessed the situation. I seized the moment. Lowering my hands slightly, I began to subtly move my feet, one foot crossing over the other, tapping quietly in a rhythm—an old signal I had taught Aria when she was learning to mimic my actions. It felt absurd in the gravity of the moment, but I had to make it clear enough for her to see without drawing Ethan’s suspicion.

As soon as it happened, I sprang into action. “Come,” I mouthed urgently, waving my hands, fingers frantic with urgency. Aria didn’t hesitate. She propelled herself free and dashed away with the blind determination of a child who knows only one destination: safety. She ran as fast as her small legs could carry her, the yard blurring beneath her.

For a fleeting moment, I dared to believe it had worked. Please, let it have worked. But then Ethan’s recovery was quicker than I anticipated. He whipped his pistol up, the metal glinting ominously, and aimed directly at her fleeing figure. Time stretched, folding in on itself; I could see the officers snapping into action, guns rising in reflex, a dozen bright intentions focused on Ethan’s chest.

“Stand down, don’t shoot!” the inspector shouted, his voice slicing through the air like a blade. “The girl will get caught in the crossfire, don’t shoot!”

A cacophony of chaos erupted. Officers froze, rifles halfway raised, caught in the dilemma of protocol versus the immediate threat of hitting a child. The investigator’s eyes were sharp, calculating a rapid sequence of shots, angles, and trajectories. Ethan’s face twisted with rage and pain; he was poised to pull the trigger, breathing heavily, the gun a dreadful extension of his fury.

I stood there, rooted to the spot, my hands feeling utterly useless at my sides. Ethan’s pistol was raised, mere seconds away from turning the instinct of survival into an unspeakable tragedy. A cold, helpless horror seized my body.

What have I done?