The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 202

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

**Chapter 202**

Gemma’s POV

Mikhail occupies the seat next to me with an air of casual dominance, his elbows propped on the door frame, legs splayed wide, effectively pushing me to the very edge of the seat. It’s a physical manifestation of his arrogance, and I can’t help but feel a simmering irritation bubbling beneath my skin.

Yet, it’s not just the way he takes up space that grates on me; it’s that infuriatingly smug grin plastered across his face. The urge to throttle him is almost overwhelming. I manage to suppress it, sitting rigidly next to him, arms crossed tightly against my chest as if to ward off the unwelcome intimacy he seems intent on fostering.

“I’m genuinely curious, Moonlight! Your husband treats you like absolute garbage, and you just sit there, silent as a statue? You should be thanking me for rescuing you from that dinner with him,” he taunts, his voice dripping with mockery.

I fix my gaze on the city sliding by outside the window, my jaw clenched tight, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

“Do you ever stop to think about how tied up you get in your feelings? Isn’t it exhausting? Why chase after someone who clearly has no interest in you? Clinging to someone who despises you is just… well, embarrassing,” he continues, his words slicing through the air like sharp needles, each one piercing my self-respect a little more. I shoot him a glare, the streetlights flashing against his sunglasses, which he stubbornly refuses to remove.

“Mr. Voloshin, are you enjoying this little lecture, or is this your way of offering advice from personal experience—”

“Experience?!” he interrupts, his tone incredulous.

“Have you recently been dumped by an ex? Is that why you’ve donned this cynical façade, pretending to disdain love because you’ve never truly known it?” I shoot back, my voice steady, though my heart races with the thrill of confrontation.

His laughter dies on his lips, the confident mask he wears slipping for just a moment. I notice his gaze shift to the windshield, and in that instant, I realize I’ve struck a nerve. Good.

The silence stretches between us, thick and palpable, until the car comes to a halt. The bass thumping from Dionysus’ Den hits me like a physical force, reverberating through my bones, making my head throb almost instantly.

As I step out, the music blasts around me, overwhelming and chaotic. The neon lights flash in aggressive reds and purples, and I can already tell I’m not going to enjoy this place.

Mikhail’s cool demeanor returns as he grabs my wrist, pulling me through the throng of bodies. “Relax… it’ll be fun,” he insists, though his grip is firm, leaving me little choice but to follow.

I resist the urge to yank my hand free, fearing that I might lose myself in this maze of corridors. “I’m here to finish my work, not to be entertained,” I remind him, my voice steady but laced with frustration.

“Well, that’s part of the test, too,” he replies, a smirk playing on his lips.

He pushes open a heavy door to a private room, a sanctuary from the pounding crowd, draped in blackout curtains and equipped with a soundproof door. The sudden quiet envelops me like a warm blanket, and I take a moment to breathe.

Inside, several people lounge on plush sofas, glasses in hand, their eyes flicking toward us as Mikhail introduces me to the group. Most greet me with warm smiles and nods, their friendliness surprising in this environment.

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