No Second Chances Ex-husband (Lauren and Ethan) novel Chapter 60

LAUREN'S POV

Maybe I was just making a mistake. The thought circled in my head like the bass-heavy beat pulsing through the club speakers. This place was packed, after all. Out of all the men here, how could I be certain it was him?

There were plenty of guys wearing red shirts tonight. Crimson, scarlet, maroon, some brighter, some darker. It was a popular color for a night out. My eyes kept darting around the room, catching glimpses of red fabric in every direction. And if I was being logical, the man I thought I saw earlier had bodyguards with him. I noticed them — men with sharp eyes and broad shoulders, the kind that didn’t belong to ordinary clubgoers. Yet this one, the man now standing so casually at the bar, seemed completely alone.

Why would someone like him — someone important enough to be ushered into the special VIP lounge without hesitation suddenly abandon that luxurious privacy to stand here among the regular crowd? It didn’t make sense.

I told myself to let it go, that maybe the juice was making me read too much into this. But then the image flashed in my memory again: the shirt. Not just the red color, but that one detail — the orange stripe across the left shoulder. That was what set it apart. If the shirt this man wore carried the same mark, then my suspicion wasn’t just paranoia. Then I’d know for sure.

I placed my glass down on the counter, the condensation leaving a wet circle on the polished surface, and I turned. Not a casual glance this time, but a full, deliberate turn to take him in properly.

The man was tall, taller than most around him, with a posture that carried a natural kind of confidence. His red shirt hung open at the top, revealing a glimpse of his chest. A few buttons were undone, like he wasn’t trying too hard but still wanted to leave an impression. Silver glinted faintly under the shifting lights, chains around his neck, a bold wristwatch on one arm, rings that caught the light whenever he moved his hand. He wore jeans that weren’t flashy but fit perfectly, the kind that looked effortless yet deliberate.

He blended in and yet didn’t. The kind of man who could pass unnoticed if he wanted, but if you gave him more than a second’s attention, you realized there was something deliberate in his presence. Like he belonged, but not completely.

But none of that mattered to me. I wasn’t interested in his expensive jewelry or how his features caught the light in ways that would make other women stare. My gaze was fixed on his left shoulder, and when I finally saw it — the bold orange stripe running diagonally across the fabric. I felt the anger build up slowly

There it was. The confirmation I needed.

“It’s you!” The words slipped out before I even realized how loudly I had said them.

His head turned from the bartender, where he’d been waiting for his drink, and his eyes locked onto mine. His lips curved, not into exactly, but into something sly.

“It’s me,” he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm, as though we were in on some private joke that only he understood.

“Do I know you?” he added, tilting his head slightly, studying me now with a flicker of curiosity.

“No,” I replied firmly, crossing my arms over my chest. “But you bumped into me a few minutes ago before entering the VIP lounge.”

His eyebrows rose slightly, as though he was trying to recall or maybe just pretending he didn’t.

“Ohhh,” he dragged out the sound slowly, carelessly, before adding a single word: “So..?”

I felt heat rise in my chest, irritation getting stronger and stronger. “So? You didn’t even say sorry.” My voice carried a sharp edge, though the music thundering around us swallowed most of the bite.

He let out a laugh, low at first, then genuine amusement spilling into it. He actually laughed at me, and that only deepened my annoyance.

“Is that why you marked my face?” he asked, still chuckling, as if the idea was ridiculous, as if my feelings were nothing more than entertainment to him.

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