The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 272

Chapter 272

Gemma’s POV

The smell of antiseptic hits me hard the moment I step inside the doorway, while a nurse efficiently prepares to change the IV needle in Cassian’s arm.

He’s watching her work with an unreadable poker face. There’s no tension in his jaw, no flicker of discomfort, he almost looks bored.

Then his eyes shift and land on me. The transformation is so instantaneous that it’s utterly ridiculous.

His face crumples, bottom lip jutting out in a theatrical pout.

“Honey, it hurts!”

He whines, and both the nurse and I are rendered completely speechless. Is this guy treating me like I’m blind? He was deadpan, completely deadpan, the very second I stepped into the room.

I catch the nurse’s eye for a fleeting moment. She quickly looks down, but not before I see the silent commentary in her gaze.

My patience snaps. “Shut your mouth and don’t make the nurse’s job harder!”

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The nurse finishes her task with professional speed, gives me a small, sympathetic smile, and leaves with her tray, the door swinging shut behind her.

I sit in the stiff chair by the window, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Cassian, where is the card Grandpa gave me when we got married?”

I can see the confusion swirling in his eyes. He has so many cards, so many accounts. If I hadn’t mentioned it today, he probably wouldn’t have remembered it existed.

“In my wallet…” he says slowly, thinking it should be there.

“Where’s your wallet?”

“In my jacket.”

He’s answering my questions one by one, like pulling teeth. I don’t have the time or the energy for this.

I get up and go to the rack where his jacket is hanging. The leather is soft and cool under my fingers. I find his wallet, flipping it open, I see there’s hardly any cash, just slots and slots of cards: black, platinum, silver.

My fingers work quickly, flipping through each one. The corporate cards, the personal cards, the membership cards. But

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the one I’m looking for isn’t there

The distinctive, red and golden card from Grandpa.

“It’s not here,” I say, turning to face him.

He frowns in confusion.

“Did you leave it at Oakhaven and forget to bring it out?”

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He isn’t sure himself, so I call Chloe right there, putting her on speakerphone. With Cassian’s mumbled permission, she goes to search his study at home.

“Mrs. Blackwell, it’s not here!”

Her voice comes through the phone, clear and final.

I hang up, my gaze locking back onto Cassian. “Where’s the

card?”

The question is a demand now. He has lost one of his cards, a card tied to a significant, specific fund, and he seems completely oblivious to the seriousness of the issue.

Cassian is perplexed. “Why are you suddenly asking about that card? If you want to buy something, you can use any of my other cards.”

“That card was for sponsoring underprivileged students, with

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monthly deductions.”

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Hearing this, a flicker of recognition finally lights his eyes. It seems he’s starting to recall the day we set it up, the paperwork we signed together.

“That card shouldn’t have run out of funds for another four or five years,” I continue, “but one of the beneficiaries told me the funding had stopped two years ago.”

Molly, a sophomore now, was cut off in high school. The timeline is a sickening lurch in my gul.

Cassian hadn’t anticipated this.

“If your card got lost outside, and no one knows your PIN, they shouldn’t be able to withdraw the money or freeze the funds. Think hard, where did you put that card?” It was a substantial sum of money. This isn’t a misplaced credit card; it’s a broken promise to a girl who had nothing. “Did you use that card a year ago?”

I watch him, as he searches his memory for any occasion, any reason he might have used it.

“If you can’t remember, let’s check the spending history of this card.”

There has to be a trail… there has to be an answer.

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“I’ll call Adam to cheek, so don’t worry.”

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The command in his voice is back the CEO taking over. Less than ten minutes later, the records are on his phone.

He stares at the screen, his face darkening with each passing second.

“What’s wrong? Has it really been stolen?” I ask, my heart starting to pound nervously.

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