No Second Chances Ex-husband (Lauren and Ethan) novel Chapter 139

Is she some kind of clown? When Sophia had been telling me about all their discussions I thought she was a smart person one who had approached Sophia with the whole idea of bringing down Lauren. That made sense, Strategy Initiative. A woman who could smell opportunity and pounce. So why, then, would she even think I would want to hand her a position like that?

I’m still a businessman. Businessmen need proof. Proof that you’re good at what you do. Proof that you will deliver results, that you can cut through politics and ego, and actually bring value to the bottom line. Paychecks aren’t charity; they’re investments. Investors want returns, not promises. They want numbers, not whining

When it comes to Cassandra, I don’t see proof. All I see is failure wrapped in excuses. If she was as competent as she claims, she would have gotten the role she says Lauren stole from her. She would be the one sitting in some corner office now, barking orders, closing deals. But she isn’t.

Lauren didn’t steal anything from her. That was the bitter little story Cassandra tells herself at night, the one she repeats until the lie feels like truth. It’s a self–soothing fable: the world wronged me; someone else got what Fide That kind of thinking Breeds resentment, not competence. And now that deceit has ossified into something uglier, a hatred for Lauren so bright it

ds her. She wants revenge. She wants a title. She wants to be seen. That single–mindedness has narrowed her focus until all she can taste is the idea of Lauren’s downfall.

That’s good for me.

I don’t mean that in any noble sense, I mean it in calculus. People who hate are predictable. Hate simplifies motive; it sharpens action and dulls strategy. Where professionals plan three moves ahead, furious amateurs charge blind. They mistake heat for planning; they mistake impulse for courage. Cassandra’s hatred makes her an asset if I can steer it.

Unlike most people, I always calculate every step before I take it. I like to know the pieces on the board. I like to move them while my opponent sleeps. Cassandra, burning with rage, will not sleep. She will make mistakes. She will leak. She will act before thinking. If she’s in the right place at the right time, all her mistakes become breadcrumbs for me to follow.

So yes, I’ll go along with her plan to tarnish Lauren where she currently sits. I’ll play the benevolent boss, the rehabilitator of wounded talent. I’ll offer guidance, small wins, public pats on the head all while channeling her anger into tasks that expose Roman’s weaknesses. Because I have a second plan: I don’t only want Lauren; I want Roman’s company to crumble. And the surest way to topple a company is from within. Corporate secrets, investor whispers, strategic meeting notes those are the chords that, when plucked correctly, make a symphony collapse.

Cassandra is to be my inside man. My eyes and ears. She will be positioned, carefully, to be in two places at once: apparently loyal to Hale Industries, but subtly feeding me the cadence of their moves. She’ll tell me of investor dinners, of recruitment drives, of boardroom alliances.

When Lauren, in her inevitable desperation and hope, accepts my offer to come over as I’ll arrange with a mix of charm and leverage Cassandra will be rewarded by Roman with the very position she coveted: business development manager of whatever remains of Hale industries

And then she becomes disposable.

Not cruelly, not theatrically. Just by necessity. Once Lauren is in my camp and Roman’s company is bleeding, Cassandra becomes an explosive variable. She will implode when she learns I hired the very woman she tried to destroy. She will scream betrayal; she will be compromised. Her outburst will expose her to scrutiny. That’s the cleanup: replace her, distance myself, let the fire burn out. Business is full of casualties. Emotions are more fragile than balance sheets.

“That position isn’t available in my company right now,” I said.

My voice was level. I watched Cassandra’s shoulders drop as if someone had pulled a string. The light that had been in her eyes — that quick, ugly excitement of someone who finally smells opportunity blinked out. I could practically feel the disappointment fall heavily between us. Her hands were tucked under her legs like a child’s. Her mouth formed a small, polite

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smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

And then I saw Sophia. Or rather, I saw the way Sophia stared at me. Her mouth parted, a half–question, a flicker of confusion that spread like ripples. Even she looked shocked to hear what I’d just said. The room fightened.

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