No Second Chances Ex-husband (Lauren and Ethan) novel Chapter 104

CASSANDRA’S POV

I took the glass of champagne from the passing waiter like it was an oxygen tank and swallowed it down in two long gulps. The bubbles burned briefly on my tongue and then cooled, leaving a faint, pleasant sting. It was the little luxury I allowed myself tonight, one stolen breath in a night of constant motion and obedience.

Madam manager had just drifted away into the crowd, the smile already on her face as she moved from one client to another. Finally, for the first time since I arrived hours ago, I had a moment to breathe. My shoulders eased minutely, though they remained tired and tight from running errands, carrying bags, and waiting for the next instructions.

This was y rst time working as a personal assistant. It’s different when you work at a branch, when you manage projects and reports, you deal in numbers and deadlines. This was theater: moods, optics, carefully curated images. And I had learned quickly that the role required patience and a constantly polished outward demeanor, even when the inside of you was sputtering.

And even madam manager wasn’t even helping in any way at all, in fact, she was adding to my stress, who sends a personal assistant to go buy a movie ticket, that wasn’t even work related anymore, I was her assistant not her slave, but I had done what she asked without argument because I had to. Bills didn’t pay themselves, and siblings don’t feed and clothe themselves without money. Pride had to be sensible, and survival even more so.

And then tonight. The manager had called me over like some obedient lapdog and told me, in front of guests, to apologize to that woman. To apologize. For what? For a bump in the hallway? For a crushed phone? For trying to be civil? My jaw still clenched at the memory. The manager told me to say I was sorry as if I had committed a sin. As if I had anything to apologize for.

I still hadn’t forgiven her for that careless, humiliating order. It was infuriating and yet strangely revealing: she was willing to sacrifice my dignity to smooth whatever ripple she wanted smoothed. The thing is, I had learned very early that every order had a motive. She had her reasons, connections to preserve, impressions to polish. But what she didn’t realize was that, by asking me to play the puppet, she put me in a position to observe. And observers see things others don’t.

Everyone here thinks she’s some kind of miracle worker, some wunderkind of business development. They whisper about the way she saved the Italy branch, how she turned it around when no one else could. They say she’s the one with the golden touch, the one who lifts failing branches back to profit with nothing but charm and a spreadsheet. They applaud her. They smile. They pat her back. They do not see what I see from the inside.

Because I have a closer view. I was the business development manager for the Mexico branch of Hale Industries before they moved me. I handled clients, pitches, and negotiations. I traveled, I closed deals, I brought revenue. I had the numbers to prove it. I was good at my job. I believed the promotion would be mine. They said they were searching for the best person to steady the headquarters, and I thought rightly, I thought it should be me.

But then she arrived. Mrs. Superstar, came in with the kind of halo that business tabloids fabricate. I had assumed, perhaps naively, that my relationship with the manager, our working history, and the small favors exchanged at the right times meant she would tilt things my way. Connections matter in this world. They always

1. do. I had counted on that.

Instead, when it came time to choose, I learned that success has its own logic one that isn’t always merit. The

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company’s situation was fragile. Investors were jittery. They wanted someone who could deliver fast, spectacular results and who would draw attention to the headquarters again. They wanted a story to sell. And so, they chose her. Because she had a story that made for good headlines: the woman who resurrected a dying branch. I, on paper, was steady, but apparently not sensational enough.

When I protested, I was punished. It was subtle at first, a raised eyebrow, a delayed response to an email. Then the final blow: I was told I was no longer a candidate for the post; a different role was offered and then rescinded. I lost the position. I lost the respect I had earned. And when I pushed back, the manager had me removed from my former role. I was furious, but I had mouths to feed. I had responsibilities.

This assistant job was the lifeline she dangled to me, and I took it because I had to. I swallowed my pride and took the smaller paycheck because it meant I could still pay rent, utilities, and school fees for my siblings. It meant 1 wasn’t disappearing from the company entirely. Staying in the building meant I could watch, learn, and wait. If I had to play the obedient assistant for a while longer, it would be with

albeit bitter purpose. purpose

Because yes, I have plans. I wasn’t sixteen with a grudge. I had a strategy. I intended to expose that woman for who she really was. If she could waltz into headquarters and take a prized leadership position while I’d gutted and bled for my branch, she owed me more than a polite nod. She owed me the truth. She owed me a fair shot. But she didn’t get it. And for that, I would make sure they knew the cost of their choice.

I set the empty glass down, more from habit than because it needed it, and scanned the room. Lauren Darrow

that was the name on everyone’s lips tonight, whispered and then amplified when Roman Hale had pronounced it like he owned the syllables. The look on Lauren’s face when she’d slipped out

But Lauren had to be taken down differently. This wasn’t some playground spat where I could scream and point fingers. No, I had to be surgical. If she’d really come back here and been welcomed, it meant she had advantages

connections, results, perhaps even Roman’s attention.

If she had slept with the CEO, as the whispers hinted, that was leverage. But leverage could be both a shield and a trap. I would find the trap. I would discover her secrets: the gaps between her image and her reality, the mismatches. I would find proof of whatever skeletons she kept tucked away. People would only remember the scandal she created and the fact that I, Cassandra had the audacity to uncover it.

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