The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 115

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**Before Rain Touches Earth Memories Return With Gentle Warmth by Eli Dane Crest 115**

**Chapter 115**

**Gemma**

As we approach the grand entrance of the banquet hall, Cassian suddenly turns his head, locking eyes with Claire. His voice is low and firm, laced with an unmistakable warning. “Keep your mouth shut once we’re inside. You know exactly what I mean.”

Claire rolls her eyes dramatically, a gesture that’s all too familiar to me, yet she nods in reluctant agreement. “Yeah, yeah, I get it,” she replies, the sarcasm evident in her tone.

The moment we step into the expansive hall, the atmosphere shifts. A throng of eager guests immediately converges around Cassian, their faces alight with ambition. They’re vying for a moment of his time, each hoping to forge connections that could elevate their own standing within the intricate web of mafia dealings. The air is thick with the scent of power and opportunity.

Claire, ever the social butterfly, quickly spots her little clique across the room. Without a second thought, she abandons me, leaving me standing there like an afterthought, an accessory that no one remembers to wear.

But honestly?

I’ve grown accustomed to this. In a way, it’s a relief. I quietly navigate my way to a secluded corner, hoping desperately that the night will pass without anyone bothering me.

Of course, my wish is short-lived.

A woman, impeccably dressed and cradling a glass of champagne, struts over with an air of feigned elegance. I struggle to recall her name, but it eludes me. I recognize her, though—she’s one of Claire’s so-called friends, the type who thrives on social status.

“Well, well, Gemma,” she chirps sweetly, her voice dripping with a saccharine sarcasm that sets my teeth on edge. “Did the Blackwell family forget to dress you tonight? You look… a bit plain. Just a friendly reminder—we’re not out in the countryside anymore.”

Why is it that women’s conflicts so often begin with a critique of each other’s attire? And this one? It’s clear she’s itching for a confrontation.

“Gemma, seriously,” she smirks, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper that drips with cruelty. “How long are you planning to keep pretending you’re all high and mighty? You’ve been married to the future Blackwell don for years, and yet you still haven’t produced an heir. Has Cassian even touched you in the last three years?”

I respond with a calm smile, a mask of serenity.

“If you’re so keenly aware that we’re not in the countryside,” I reply smoothly, “maybe you should reconsider your vocabulary. Speaking like an uneducated b*tch might lead people to believe you’re the one who just stepped off the farm—accent and all.”

The name suddenly comes to me—Emily.

Her expression morphs into a sickly shade of green, her eyes wide with disbelief. She looks as though she wants to scream, but the words fail her. All she can do is stand there, trembling with silent fury.

Across the room, Claire catches sight of her friend being verbally dismantled by me. Her jaw clenches so tightly that I half-expect to hear a tooth crack. With a stormy expression, she storms over, seizing Emily’s arm, and together they scurry away like frightened rabbits.

I exhale deeply, taking a sip of champagne, my gaze drifting towards Cassian. He remains ensnared in endless discussions with other mafia members, effortlessly playing the role of the perfect politician.

Being the future don is no easy feat—especially at events like this. You must wear a smile for everyone, flatter those you can’t stand, and constantly calculate your next strategic move. It’s all a façade—no genuine affection, just a game of politics and power. Each handshake is a silent battle for territory.

This is precisely why I detest these gatherings with a passion.

As I turn away from Cassian’s group, eager to escape, I inadvertently collide with a server carrying a tray laden with red wine.

Crash!

The wine splatters across my dress in a dramatic cascade, painting me in a deep crimson hue.

The poor server immediately bows her head, her voice a flurry of frantic apologies. Her hands tremble, clearly terrified of being blamed for the mishap.