No Second Chances Ex-husband novel Chapter 31

SOFIA'S POV

“Elena Black? The kid of the founder of Black Corporation?” the assassin repeated, his voice calm, almost amused.

“Yes,” I replied smoothly. “The one and only. Today is Friday morning, I’m free right now, and if you’re free too, then I suggest we meet up and discuss this face-to-face.”

“Yeah, I’d like that,” he answered without hesitation. Then, with a low chuckle, he added, “But I gotta warn you, I’m expensive.”

“I figured,” I said, my tone dry. “I wouldn’t have called if I couldn’t afford it. Now, do you have a spot in mind for us to meet?”

“And how am I supposed to suggest that? You’re the client,” he said. “Tell me where you are or where you wanna meet up, and I’ll be there.”

Typical. Men always wanted you to do the thinking for them, even when you were hiring them for something as delicate as murder. I glanced around my apartment, its marble floors and perfectly arranged furniture reflecting the kind of life I had built — clean, flawless, and ruthless. But outside? Since coming back to this city, I’d only been bothered by expensive places — private lounges, rooftop bars, designer cafés where everyone knew my face. Not exactly ideal for meeting a hitman.

I pressed my lips together, thinking quickly. “Fine. I’ll find a place. Somewhere quiet, nothing fancy. When I get there, I’ll text you the location,” I said. “And save my number under ‘Blue Client.’”

“Why ‘Blue Client’?” he asked, his voice holding a trace of curiosity.

“Because I don’t want you to know my name,” I answered, leaning back in my chair as if we were talking about the weather. “And because blue is my favorite color.”

There was a beat of silence. Then he said, “Alright. When you’re ready, let me know.”

I didn’t bother saying goodbye. I ended the call, then quickly texted Vee: “I’ve called the guy. On my way to meet him so we can talk better.”

Vee’s reply came almost immediately: “Be careful. And don’t get emotional. Remember why you’re doing this.”

I rolled my eyes. As if I needed the reminder. I tucked my phone away, stood up, and gave my apartment one last glance, the scent of jasmine lingering in the air. Everything was perfectly in place, exactly how I liked it.

Moments later, I was driving through the city, my fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel. The morning sun passed through the windshield, catching on my sunglasses. Traffic moved lazily, the city alive but still sleepy. My mind wasn’t on the road, though. It was on Elena. That innocent little smile, those eyes that mirrored Ethan’s so perfectly. She was the last loose thread keeping me from having it all.

After nearly 45 minutes — half of it spent asking a few random people where I could find a low-budget food truck, I finally spotted one tucked at the corner of a quiet street. The paint was peeling, and the umbrellas faded from the sun. But it was perfect. Discreet, forgettable.

I parked my car — my luxury car that, even from a distance, screamed wealth. As I stepped out, I felt dozens of curious eyes on me. Workers in wrinkled uniforms, women balancing toddlers on their hips, and an old man nursing a cheap cup of coffee. The poor had this irritating habit of staring like they’d never seen a designer handbag before. I shot them a cold look, my heels clicking sharply against the pavement, and walked up to the food truck.

I chose a seat under the umbrella, pulling the chair back slowly, deliberately. I placed my handbag carefully on the table, then took out my phone and texted the assassin the address. “I’m here. Come now.”

Seconds later, he replied: “On my way.”

I leaned back, crossing my legs, trying to ignore the sticky heat and the stale smell of fried dough that clung to the air. I wasn’t meant to be in places like this. But if it took sitting here with the city’s forgotten to get what I wanted, then so be it.

“Good day, ma’am, what would you like to have?”

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