The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 218

**TITLE: Before Rain Touches Earth Memories Return With Gentle Warmth by Eli Dane Crest 218**

**Chapter 218**

**Gemma’s POV**

Cassian, with a determined glint in his eyes, insists on driving me all the way to the entrance of Dream International. I try to assert myself, urging him to stop at the intersection, but he brushes off my request, steering the conversation back toward the gathering that has been hanging over us like a dark cloud.

“At least think about it…?” he urges, his voice edged with a mix of hope and desperation. The Cassian I’ve known would typically shy away from bringing up a topic that had previously earned him nothing but cold dismissal from me.

Yet, I’m not so easily swayed. It’s going to take more than a few words to thaw the ice that has formed between us.

“I said, no,” I reply curtly, my tone final.

“Gemma, I’m trying—”

“You’ve had three years to try,” I interject, cutting him off as the car glides ever closer to the imposing company gates.

“At least let me take you to the door. It’s not a crime to be seen together,” he pleads, his voice softening, almost coaxing.

I can’t help but roll my eyes at his persistence. “You’re boring,” I retort, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

He falls silent, and as the car halts right in front of the gleaming glass doors of the building, I seize the moment. I don’t linger for eye contact or a proper goodbye. Instead, I fling open the door, step out, and slam it shut with a decisive thud. His luxurious car, a symbol of a world I don’t belong to, fades behind me, just as he does.

The moment I step into the lobby, the atmosphere shifts. It’s as if I’ve walked into a room filled with tension; my colleagues glance up, only to quickly avert their eyes, pretending to be engrossed in their tasks.

I catch snippets of whispers, some stifled giggles, and the piercing stares prick at me like needles. But I refuse to let their judgment penetrate my resolve. I owe them no explanations. If they witnessed Cassian dropping me off, then let them indulge in their gossip.

With purpose, I stride past them, swiping my access card and making my way toward Mikhail’s office. As I approach, I see him already waiting, arms crossed tightly over his chest, a scowl etched deeply into his features, as if he’s been preparing to pounce on me the moment I arrive.

“Finally!” he snaps, his voice sharp and impatient. “You’ve had your fun. Now unlock my bank cards.”

I take my time, deliberately closing the door behind me with a soft click. “Good morning to you too, Mr. Voloshin,” I reply, injecting a hint of sarcasm into my tone.

“I’m not in the mood for your sarcasm, Moonlight. I just saw Blackwell drop you off in a car worth more than this entire floor,” he states, his voice laced with irritation. “Clearly, you’re not hurting for money. You can afford to return what’s mine.”

His expectation of offense amuses me, and I can’t help but let out a light laugh.

“You were watching me?” I tease, a smile dancing on my lips. “Tell me, Mr. Voloshin, when did you develop such a voyeuristic tendency, watching me and my husband?”

His face flushes a deep crimson, and for a brief moment, I’ve rendered him speechless. Just as I’m about to relish his silence, the door swings open with a bang, and his assistant rushes in, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste.

“Mr. Voloshin! There is an emergency!” he exclaims, breathless and wide-eyed.

Mikhail’s irritation is palpable. “What now?” he snaps, clearly not in the mood for interruptions.

“The model for the shoot today, Zoey Hunter… she never showed up. The photographer and the corporate team have been waiting for over three hours. They’re furious and threatening to cancel the entire cooperation.”

“Try contacting her agent again, and remind me, which shoot is this for?” Mikhail replies, his tone clipped.

“The Castle Jewelry shoot.”

My spine straightens at the mention of Castle Jewelry. They’re not just any client; they are *the* client, a name synonymous with prestige and influence, opening doors to endless opportunities. Losing them would spell disaster for a company as prominent as Dream International, dragging its reputation through the mud as the agency that failed to deliver.

Mikhail’s expression darkens, his frustration evident. He has recently taken over the entertainment division, and this kind of chaos was certainly not in the manual. He pushes his chair back with a loud scrape and stands, determination etched across his face.

“We’re going to the site. Now.”

Harold hesitates, glancing nervously at Mikhail. “Sir, should I try contacting her agent again?”

Mikhail waves him off impatiently. “Do it on the way.”

“Cassian has nothing to do with Zoey Hunter. She needs to own up to her own mess.”

Mikhail flicks me a glance but doesn’t argue, and the car speeds onward. When we finally arrive at the photoshoot location, the air crackles with tension, tempers flaring like sparks in a dry field.

The photographer, a wiry man with graying hair and a furrowed brow, spots us immediately.

“Mr. Voloshin, this is unacceptable! We have been ready since dawn—my crew, the equipment, the jewelry… all of it, wasting away. Castle will not tolerate this, and if this is how Dream Entertainment treats its partners, then I wholeheartedly support their decision!”

Mikhail raises both hands slightly, attempting to calm the storm brewing before him.

“You’re right, Geffrey. Our model has failed in professionalism, and I won’t deny that. But let me make it up to you. We’ll replace her immediately, and the schedule won’t suffer any more delays.”

The photographer glares at him, disbelief etched into every feature.

“Replace her? With whom!? Every reputable model is booked months in advance. You think we can just pluck someone off the street?”

The crew murmurs in agreement, and I can feel the heat rising in the air, an electric tension that sends a shiver down my spine. I fold my arms, watching Mikhail closely. His jaw tightens, his eyes scanning the assembled staff, the empty set, and the jewelry glimmering under the harsh halogen lights.

Then, suddenly, his gaze locks onto me.

“Gemma…!” he says slowly, a spark of inspiration igniting in his expression.

“What?” I ask, confusion mingling with a hint of dread.

He turns to the photographer, a glint of calculation in his eyes. “She can step in as the model.”

“You can’t be serious—” I blurt out, just as the photographer’s eyes widen in shock.

Blood rushes to my face, a mix of embarrassment and disbelief flooding my senses, while Mikhail stands there confidently, as if tossing me into the spotlight is the most sensible solution in the world.