The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 222

**Before Rain Touches Earth Memories Return With Gentle Warmth by Eli Dane Crest**
**Chapter 222**

**Gemma’s POV**

“No.”

The word escapes my lips like a whisper, yet it hangs heavily in the air. Cassian stands across from me, his gaze fixed on my face with an intensity that feels almost palpable. I can sense the weight of his expectation, the way he is poised to catch even the slightest flicker of emotion that might betray my true feelings.

So, he remembered this year?

I glance past him, taking in the lavish dinner he has prepared and the gifts stacked neatly on the table behind him. Each item glimmers under the soft light, a testament to the effort he has put into this occasion. Yet, despite the thoughtfulness that went into it, I feel nothing. The warmth that once stirred my heart has long since faded.

“What does it mean—” he begins, his voice steady, but I can hear the underlying tension.

“I mean that I don’t like meaningless holidays anymore,” I interrupt, my tone sharper than I intended.

The atmosphere thickens, and I can almost feel the oxygen being sucked from the room. Cassian’s eyes narrow, a flicker of disbelief crossing his features.

“What did you say?” he repeats, his voice low, almost a growl.

“You heard me,” I reply defiantly. “When I was younger, I was naive enough to believe that these rituals were symbols of love and care, but they’re not. All of this—” I gesture dismissively at the candles and gifts, “—it doesn’t mean anything to me anymore. I used to care, but I’ve outgrown it.”

“Is that so?” he shoots back, his voice rising slightly. “So, it mattered to you once? And now, suddenly, it’s all meaningless?”

“Everyone grows up, Cassian. Tastes change. And trust me, this change has been a long time coming. What I once cherished has become a burden. Do I really need to justify this to you?”

His anger simmers beneath the surface, evident in the way his jaw tightens.

“Gemma, you said I never cared for these things. You wanted me to try,” he asserts, his voice deepening with frustration.

I lift my chin defiantly. “And when you ignored it, I learned not to care. Isn’t that what you wanted all along?”

With a sudden movement, I push my chair back and rise to my feet. “I didn’t ask for this. I don’t want the trouble, and I certainly don’t need the jewelry.”

“Gem—”

“I’m tired,” I cut him off, my voice firm. “I’m going upstairs.”

Without another glance in his direction, I exit the dining room, feeling the heat of his gaze burning into my back, a reminder of the unresolved tension lingering between us.

*****

Later that evening, I find myself half-asleep when a frantic knock reverberates through the door, pulling me from my thoughts.

Reluctantly, I pull on my robe and shuffle down the hall, following the sound to where Cassian lies in his bed, his shirt discarded, revealing skin slick with sweat.

His face is flushed, and his chest rises and falls in a heavy rhythm, a sight that would evoke sympathy in anyone else.

But not me. He turned my heart to stone long ago.

The family doctor hovers over him, checking his pulse with a frown.

“He’s been indulging too much—too much spice, too much processed food. His body can’t handle it,” she explains, her tone matter-of-fact.

I cross my arms, skeptical. “So, it’s not serious, then?”

Cassian’s car slows beside me, the tinted window rolling down. “Get in.” His voice is clipped, devoid of any room for debate.

I hesitate, pride wrestling with practicality. But as the rain continues to drench my dress, clinging to my skin, I let out a frustrated breath, yank open the passenger door, and slide inside.

The warmth envelops me, the air inside the car carrying a faint scent of leather and him. Without meeting my gaze, Cassian hands me a towel. “Dry yourself. You’ll catch a cold.”

I glance at the towel, then back at him, a sharp laugh escaping my lips. “You’re not worried about me catching a cold. You’re worried about me dirtying your car.”

“If I didn’t want you here, I wouldn’t have stopped,” he replies flatly, his tone dismissive, which stings more than I care to admit.

I twist the towel in my hands, then deliberately squeeze the hem of my soaked dress, letting muddy rainwater drip onto the pristine leather seat, creating dark patches that spread like ink on paper.

His head snaps toward me, eyes wide with disbelief. “What the hell are you doing?”

There it is, the confirmation of my assumption.

“If you dislike it so much, why did you invite me in in the first place?” I challenge, my voice steady.

Droplets continue to fall, soaking into the seams of the seat. The air between us thickens with tension, neither of us willing to break eye contact.

But then I notice his gaze shifting lower, and my own eyes follow its path.

The rain has rendered my dress nearly transparent, the pale fabric clinging to my body, outlining the shape of my bra and the gentle curve of my breasts, even the faint pink hue of the fabric underneath.

Cassian swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, and I can see his fingers gripping the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles turning almost white.