Too Late Augustine Novel by Charis _ Novel





Too Late Augustine Chapter 01

After the divorce, I left Las Vegas without a moment’s hesitation.
I headed to Dubai alone, ready to start anew.
Over time, I carved out a name for myself in the shadowy world of Middle Eastern arms dealing.
Then, whispers from Las Vegas reached me: my ex-husband, Augustine Clayton, was about to get engaged to his little mistress.
I ran my fingers over the bullet pendant around my neck.
Eight years ago, during a brutal gang shootout, he’d taken that bullet for me. It had grazed perilously close to his heart, missing by a hair’s breadth.
Once the surgeons pulled it out, he fashioned it into a necklace and slipped it around my neck.
His voice was soft, almost tender, as he whispered, “From now on, my life is yours.”
Snapping back to the present, I yanked the chain off without a second thought and tossed it into the trash.
Back then, everyone sneered that I was just some prize Augustine had won at the casino tables—that without him, I’d be nothing.
Seven years later, I returned to Las Vegas to open a new mine.
At the negotiation table, Augustine, who ruled half the city, locked eyes with me, and in that instant, tears welled up in his eyes.
I, however, remembered what had happened at his father’s funeral seven years earlier.
That day, he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with his mistress, letting her play the part of his wife, graciously accepting condolences from family and friends.
That day, I learned my husband had built a cozy little home with her in Centennial Hills.
***
I slid the divorce papers across the table to Augustine, calm and collected as ever.
“Sign them.”
Augustine arched an eyebrow, his expression dripping with amusement.
Tucked beneath the agreement was a newspaper, sensationalized to the hilt, detailing how Augustine’s lover, Cecilia Webster, had stolen the spotlight at the funeral, leaving his real wife humiliated and sidelined.
“Kassandra, must you play these childish games again?” he asked casually.
“For eight years, you’ve dangled divorce over my head like a threat—must be at least a hundred times by now. Haven’t you gotten tired of this routine?”
Then he fished a black card out of his pocket and flicked it onto the table.
“If that’s not enough, just hit up Brad—he’ll wire you more. I’ve been swamped with work lately, but you can call me if you need anything.”
I didn’t take the card. I simply cast a cool glance at Cecilia in his arms.
All the women Augustine had paraded around these years looked just like her.
I knew exactly why Augustine never married Cecilia after she came back.
After all, the wife of the underground king wasn’t meant for the one he loved—it was for the one who fit the role, the strategic choice.
“You planning to keep her as your side piece forever?”
I nudged the divorce papers forward again.
Cecilia pouted in annoyance, clearly stung by the “side piece” label. She cooed in that saccharine voice of hers, “Ms. Lambert, love’s between two people. The one who’s not loved is the real side piece.”
Augustine chuckled lightly, saying nothing to contradict her.
He stroked her cheek affectionately, then turned to me. “We’ll go to the church tomorrow morning. Don’t be late.”
I didn’t look away until his figure faded.
Every week, Augustine dragged me to church, saying it would cleanse us of our sins.
His mother, Shelly Clayton, often hinted that my barren womb was proof of my sin.
And Augustine? He saw my intolerance for his mistresses as the sin of jealousy.
Stepping into the church, I closed my eyes and began to pray.
When Augustine arrived, an inexplicable wave of panic gripped my heart.
“Kassandra,” he called out.
My pulse quickened, a knot tightening in my chest.
“A sorcerer told me Cecilia’s in for some bad luck this year. The only way to ward it off is to soak her feet in water mixed with your father’s ashes.”
I shot to my feet, staring into his cold, impassive eyes in utter shock—then burst into a hollow laugh.
“Augustine, eight years ago, I consulted a fortune teller about us. I lied and said we were a perfect match, but the truth? He told me you will ruin my life, and we will never have a baby.
“If you so much as touch my father’s grave, I’ll smash your father’s coffin to splinters.”
Over the years, I’d cried and raged over his endless affairs.
I’d learned the hard way: in this cutthroat jungle, no man respected a woman who endured everything without fighting back.
His face darkened in an instant.
“Do it!” he ordered, his voice stern, brooking no dissent.
“Augustine!”
His henchmen pinned me down with iron grips, while the others desecrated my father’s grave right before my eyes.
“Kassandra, this is for your father’s own good. Ashes are useless. Helping Cecilia out? It’s an honor for him.”
“Get the hell off me!”
Fueled by the absurdity of it all, I lashed out, shoving his goons aside and snatching the urn back.
Then, a brutal blow cracked against the back of my head.
Warm blood trickled down my forehead, blurring my vision.
I couldn’t hold onto the urn anymore. Soon, someone ripped it from my arms.
In agony, I raised my head and, under the harsh sun, saw Augustine’s cold face.
“Deliver it to the sorcerer,” he said.
I forced a bitter smile and then blacked out.

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