The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 229

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

**Chapter 229**

**Gemma’s POV**

I trail behind Cassian as we descend the staircase, my heart heavy with the weight of his presence. Each step feels like a battle against the urge to distance myself from him, to create a chasm wide enough to drown out the echoes of his voice that reverberate painfully in my mind. All I crave is a moment of solitude—air, space, silence—anything that doesn’t involve him.

As we reach the bottom, I make a beeline for the garage. My car, my sanctuary, sits exactly where I left it, glistening under the muted glow of the overhead lights. At least in this chaotic night, there is still one thing that feels undeniably mine.

But, predictably, he blocks my escape.

“Get in my car,” he commands, stepping into my path with an authority that makes my stomach churn. I cross my arms defiantly, glaring at him. “I have no intention of spending even a second with you, let alone sitting in your car—”

“Don’t worry,” he interjects, annoyance etching lines on his jaw. “I called Tom to come from the parking garage. I won’t be driving.”

He seems to think that this is the crux of the issue—that my reluctance stems from concern for his driving ability.

I raise an eyebrow, my gaze piercing through him as I gesture dismissively towards my Porsche. “Good for you. But I’m more than capable of driving myself.”

His eyes flicker to my car, and a shadow passes over his face—a flash of something dark, something possessive. “Is this the one he bought you?”

There it is—the sharp jab, the wound that never quite heals.

I exhale slowly, pressing my palm against the cool metal of the door. “I earned this car through my own hard work. Not that you would ever believe me.”

His silence speaks volumes, and then his voice cuts through the air, low and tinged with irritation. “If you want a car, there are a dozen in the garage. If you want a specific one, just tell me. You don’t need to go to another man for it.”

A bitter laugh escapes my lips, quiet yet loaded with emotion. “Maybe I don’t need to go to anyone at all. Did you ever consider that?”

But he’s too ensnared in his jealousy, caught in the web of an imagined rival to truly hear me.

I push past him, my shoulder brushing against his arm—a finality in that small contact. “See you at home.”

I slip into my car, the engine roaring to life beneath me, and I drive away without casting a glance back.

As I pull into the manor’s driveway, I see him waiting for me, slumped against Tom’s side, clearly too intoxicated to stand upright. His head hangs low, as if the burdens of the night have finally overwhelmed him.

Chloe meets us at the door, her eyes widening in shock at the sight of him. “Is Mr. Blackwell drunk?”

Tom sighs, nodding gravely. “You’re right… he couldn’t even walk without my help.”

I grab a bottle of yogurt from the fridge, hoping to slip away upstairs unnoticed. But his voice, slurred and heavy, slices through the air.

“Gemma!”

I freeze, my grip tightening around the bottle.

“Gemma, Gemma, Gemma!”

Chloe glances at me, her expression a mix of awkwardness and expectation.

“Miss, maybe you should take care of him for a bit. I’ll fetch some lemon juice.”

I exhale slowly, my mind racing as I make my way toward the couch.

I set the yogurt down on the table, my voice steady yet laced with annoyance. “What trouble are you causing now?”

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