The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 151

**Before Rain Touches Earth Memories Return With Gentle Warmth by Eli Dane Crest**
**Chapter 151-1**

**Reyna’s POV**

What a load of crap!

I stride out of Cassian’s office, the ridiculous key card clutched tightly in my hand, feeling the weight of it like a leaden anchor.

That infuriating redhead had the audacity to hand me a list of absurd tasks—tasks I was expected to perform in the warehouse. As if! As if Reyna Holloway would ever willingly step foot in that stock room, let alone touch those crates filled with mass-produced rubbish they dare to call clothes. The very thought sends a shiver of disgust through me.

And yet, here I am, staring at this list like it’s some kind of cruel joke. This isn’t a prank; Cassian genuinely did this to me.

I squeeze the paper until the edges bite into my palms, my frustration boiling over. What the hell is this?

It feels like a slap in the face, especially after all I’ve done for him—everything I sacrificed to support him in this chaotic world.

Fumbling for my phone, I check for messages, but nothing has gone through. My calls remain unanswered. His phone is still out of reach.

Damn it! Did he deliberately choose today to vanish while I’m left to face this public humiliation?

But he hadn’t seemed angry or upset during our last conversations. Sure, he was a bit distant, but not like this. Not like he would strip me of my title behind my back without a word.

As I scroll through our message thread aimlessly, someone collides with my shoulder, jolting me from my thoughts.

I whip my head up, ready to unleash my frustration on the poor soul who dared to invade my space. It’s Monica, one of my subordinates, standing there with a sheepish expression.

My glare could probably melt steel, but she acts as if she’s oblivious to it, casually shrugging her shoulders.

“It’s okay, just try to be careful next time,” she says, her tone annoyingly nonchalant.

“Excuse me?!” I retort, incredulous.

She halts, turning to face me, and I brace myself for an apology that I doubt will come.

“Oh, Reyna, it’s you…” she says lightly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, as if that will somehow soften the blow.

“I checked the task list this morning. It seems you’re assigned to do the inventory list? Since when do senior executives do that kind of work?”

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut.

My ears ring with the weight of her mockery. My blood pressure spikes as my nails dig deeper into my palms.

This girl, who has never dared to meet my gaze directly, is now mocking me?

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