The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 195

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

**Chapter 195**

**Cassian’s POV**

She doesn’t cast a single glance back, not even for a fleeting moment.

Gemma is effortlessly assisting Jace into the taxi, as if I’m merely a ghost lingering ten meters away, observing every single movement with a tempest of emotions swirling within me. The door snaps shut with a finality that echoes in my chest, the engine hums to life, and then, just like that, she vanishes from my sight.

Fine! If this is the game she wants to play, then I’ll show her that I can play it too… and I’ll do it better than she ever could, damn it!

In a fit of frustration, I pivot and kick the trash that’s obstructing my path. It collides violently with the wall, rattling across the pavement with a hollow clang that only serves to stoke the fire of my anger. The sound reverberates in my ears, a stark reminder of my growing rage.

I notice an officer flinch in the doorway, hastily moving towards the trashcan, but the longer Gemma remains absent, the more my fury simmers beneath the surface… as if it’s searching for another way to escape.

“Cassian…?”

Reyna’s gentle and tentative voice slithers up behind me, catching me off guard. Her fingers flutter towards my arm like anxious birds, eager to offer comfort.

“Are you okay? Do you want me to call the doctor? Maybe I should ask someone to bring you some ice!”

“Leave it.”

Her fussing is irritating, especially when the one person who should be concerned for my well-being is out there, tending to someone else’s wounds. That bastard…

“Cassian, don’t be like that! You’re still bleeding. How can you be so careless—”

“I’m not dying.”

The words escape my lips, low and icy, but I feel no remorse. She freezes, her hand hovering awkwardly in mid-air, unsure of what to do next. I don’t bother to glance at her, my gaze fixed on the empty street where the taxi has just disappeared.

**Gemma’s POV**

Jace turns back inside the taxi after staring out of the window for what feels like an eternity, letting out a miserable sigh that hangs in the air. He presses a cold pack against his swollen cheek, slumping back against the seat, a picture of defeat.

“This is all my fault… I’m so sorry, Gemma. And you too, Zina. If I hadn’t picked a fight with him… I mean, if I had just kept my mouth shut at the police station instead of dragging you into this ego clash, then you wouldn’t have to give up the villa.”

The air conditioner hums softly in the background, a comforting sound that contrasts with the turmoil in the cab. The distant sounds of traffic filter in, a reminder of the world outside our bubble of despair.

He continues, his voice heavy with regret, “I know how important that manor is to you, and I wanted to encourage you to stand up for your rights… but I just made everything worse.”

I blink at him, struggling to find the right words to say, but before I can think, a laugh escapes my lips, surprising both of us. He turns to me, his expression caught somewhere between shock and confusion.

“Jace…” I say, shaking my head in disbelief.

“Don’t be ridiculous, none of this is your fault. Even if he takes the villa, I’ll buy it back. Remember, I’ve got half of fifty million dollars coming from this job!”

I offer a polite nod, and I can see the older gentleman’s expression shift to one of somber concern.

“Allow me to apologize on behalf of my son. I was informed of the incident, and that you were quite frightened. I take full responsibility for the distress you endured.”

As the waiter presents my coffee, I stir it slowly, contemplating my next words.

“Please don’t worry. If our business arrangement doesn’t work out, we can still remain friends. However, friendships only thrive when people acknowledge their wrongdoings, and it’s greatly appreciated when it comes from the right person.”

I pause just long enough for him to grasp the weight of my words. To his credit, Mr. Smith nods immediately, then casts a sharp glance at Mikhail.

Mikhail glares back at me, his expression a mix of irritation and something resembling shame. Finally, Mr. Smith gives him a firm pat on the shoulder, urging him forward.

“What are you waiting for?”

A long moment of silence stretches between us before Mikhail shifts his jaw, as if extracting the apology is as painful as pulling out a molar.

“…I’m sorry.”

I lift an eyebrow, my tone teasing yet firm. “Sorry for what, Mr. Voloshin?”

His gaze snaps to mine, and I catch a glimpse of his internal struggle, a battle between annoyance and the dawning realization of his own faults.