The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 266

Chapter 266

Gemma’s POV

“As long as you remain upset with me.”

“Go to hell!”

I hang up before he can say another word, but just as I step on the street, the sound of a truck screeching to a halt makes us stop in anticipation.

The rear doors swing open with a theatrical clang, revealing mountains of roses, fresh and vibrant, filling the entire truck bed. The crowd outside the restaurant gasps in awe, some pulling out their phones instantly

And then, a silhouette appears in the doorway.

Cassian steps down carefully from that ridiculous mountain of flowers, dressed like he’s about to walk a runway, holding only one rose in his hand. The sight makes my stomach drop, because I know what’s coming next.

“I came to deliver this in person,” he says, walking straight toward me with deliberate steps. His eyes are steady on mine, not once wavering. He holds the rose out to me. “Will you accept

it?”

The crowd murmurs in excitement, some already snapping

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photos, others whispering about bow romantic it all looks.

My face burns, red hot from mortification.

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I lift my chin, keeping my voice firm. “Sorry, please step aside. I don’t want to talk to you.”

His lips press into a faint line, disappointment flashing across his face, but instead of backing away, he sighs and falls into step beside me.

The next second, his hand snakes out and grips mine, his fingers slipping into the spaces between mine as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Startled, I try to yank my hand free. “Let me go!”

I hiss under my breath.

But he only leans closer, his breaths brushing my ear.

“Grandpa wants us to go back together for Thanksgiving dinner. Are you still going to be mad at me? And besides, with so

many people watching, there might be some media personnel around…”

My heart falters. I hate to admit it, but he’s right. If I make a scene now, it’ll spread like wildfire online.

Slowly, my resistance fades, my hand slackening in his grasp. By

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the time we sit in his car, my patience finally shatters. “Cassian, do you have no shame?”

He shrugs lightly, eyes still on the road. “You’re my wife. Why do I need to feel ashamed?”

I stare at him in disbelief. “You-

My words choke off. Inside, the fumes are rising. He’s out of his mind!

Now he’s being extra lovey–dovey, acting like some devoted husband. But earlier, wasn’t he the one who always looked at me with annoyance, like I disgusted him?

He breaks the silence again, “Grandpa already knows about my injured hand. I’ll make it up to you when the time comes. Just listen to me tonight.”

My lips press tightly together. Grandpa knows? Of course he does. With everything blowing up online, how could he not?

We arrive at the Blackwell Estate, and as we step inside, he once again takes my hand in his uninjured one, holding it firmly as if daring me to pull away.

Even before I see Grandpa, the smell of turkey sandwiches

greets me warmly. Sure enough, Grandpa is waiting in the living room, his eyes brightening when he spots me.

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“Gemma, come here!” His voice is warm, cheerful. “I made your favorite turkey and mustard sandvich. Take some with you when you head back today.”

I glance briefly at Cassian before obeying, stepping toward Grandpa. But Cassian tries to sneak upstairs.

“Where are you off to, you scoundrel?” Grandpa barks.

Cassian pauses mid–step. “I’m going upstairs to change.”

“What’s there to change? These ragged clothes of yours? Get over here. Don’t think you can freeload every year without helping!”

I bite back a smile, watching Cassian turn into a statue. Grandpa knows how to keep him in check.

“Listen carefully,” Grandpa continues. “If you don’t learn how to make food this year, you won’t eat dinner tonight. I’m leaving the rest to you and Gemma. And if you dare let Gemma do it alone, just wait and see!”

My heart skips. His hand isn’t even healed, and making sandwiches takes effort. Grandpa’s clearly putting him on the spot on purpose.

That’s why, I make no move to intervene. Instead, I quietly start on my own sandwiches, determined to finish quickly and wash my hands of him.

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Cassian, meanwhile, fumbles miserably. His brows furrow as he tries again and again, but the bread slips, the fillings spill, and his hands just won’t cooperate. By the time I finish two neat sandwiches, he’s still struggling with his first.

Finally, I feel his eyes on me, speaking tentatively. “Gemma… can you show me how to?”

I don’t bother to look at him.

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