The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 286

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The Opal Group’s press conference is being held on a sprawling lawn under a twilight sky. A cool evening breeze sweeps across the open space, a welcome relief that carries the scent of cut grass and expensive perfume. The lights are strategically dimmed, casting a soft, golden glow, and the overall vibe is deliberately chill, a calculated informality for the elite.

I enter on Cassian’s arm, my lake–blue gown whispering against the grass.

I spot Mikhail almost immediately, standing under a sprawling locust tree, a dark silhouette against the fairy lights.

He’s in formal attire, but the suit can’t quite tame him; it just gives his standard, stocky build a hint of contained wildness. He looks entirely at home in this opulent setting, a wolf comfortable in sheep’s clothing.

His eyes find mine, and he pushes off the tree, walking toward us with a predator’s grace.

“Mr. Blackwell,” he says, his tone deceptively polite, his gaze flicking to me. “May I borrow your female companion for twenty minutes?”

Cassian’s arm lenses under my hand. He stares Mikhail down,

his expression turning to granite. What if I say no?”

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Mikhail’s lips curl into a playful, infuriating smile. “She is an independent person. Mr. Blackwell, your refusal doesn’t seem to work. It’s up to Ms. Marino.” He pauses, letting the

the air. “So what did you just ask me for?”

“For leasing you.”

hang in

I almost smile. He’s enjoying this far too much. I glance at Cassian. Sure enough, his expression is thunderously gloomy. A familiar, cold satisfaction uncurls within me. I gently let go of

Cassian’s arm.

“Gemma!”

His voice is sharp, disbelieving. He can’t believe I’m just walking away to another man, right in front of him.

I turn back, offering him a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “Oh, won’t you be more sensible?” I say, my voice sweetly condescending. “I’m with him for work. There’s nothing between us.” I reach out and pat his shoulder, brushing off imaginary dust in a gesture that is both intimate and dismissive.

The words are a perfect, venomous echo. They are the exact words he used on me, time and again, when he was with Reyna. It’s just work. There’s nothing between us. I remember every single time. And I will get my revenge, piece by piece, whenever the chance arises.

I leave him standing there, angry and aggravated, a statue of frustration in the middle of the elegant party. I can feel his gaze burning into my back as I walk away with Mikhail.

“Has the chairman of the Opal Group arrived?” I ask, my tone all business as we cross the lawn.

“Yes. He’s in the room. I’m taking you to him now.”

I’ve known of the Opal Group, of course. Their name is synonymous with luxury. But I’ve never met its chairman. Men of that caliber have retreated from the public eye in recent years, becoming near–mythical figures. A normal person might never get this chance in their lifetime.

We leave the chatter of the lawn behind, entering a stunning, secluded villa at the rear of the property. We follow a silent, uniformed maid up a grand staircase, our footsteps muffled by plush carpeting. We turn several corners, moving deeper into the private heart of the estate, before finally stopping before a set of ornately carved double doors. I glance at the handles, wondering if they’re merely gold–plated.

“They’re not gold–plated, but pure gold,” Mikhail says, as if he’s read my mind.

The maid opens the door, and I follow Mikhail inside. The room is a library, lined with rich, dark wood and leather–bound books. A man stands with his back to us, looking out the large window

at the party below.

Hartley? The name hits me with the force of a physical blow. I’m stunned, my mind reeling. The Opal Group is actually owned by the Hartley family? The implications spin wildly in my head.

The man turns. He has a kind, intelligent face, and he smiles immediately upon seeing us, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He gestures to the plush leather couches. “Please, sit.”

We do. The leather is soft and cool against my skin. Peter Hartley sits across from us, his gaze settling on me with open admiration.

“Ms. Marino, you look so beautiful tonight!”

I offer a modest smile, extending my hand. “Mr. Hartley, thank you. I’ve heard so many honorable things about you.” The pleasantries feel automatic, a script I’m running while my mind

races.

“I loved that commercial you did with Mikhail,” he continues, his enthusiasm genuine. “The Opal Group’s jewelry simply complements your vibe!”

I’m a little embarrassed by the direct praise, but I keep my smile appropriately gracious. “You’re too kind.”

Mikhail, lounging beside me with his characteristic hangdog look, cuts in. “Mr. Hartley, you didn’t ask me to bring her here today just to give her a few random compliments, did you?” He sounds almost bored, as if he doesn’t give a damn about anyone, even the owner of the Opal Group.

Peter, however, seems utterly accustomed to his demeanor and isn’t angry in the least.

“How is that possible?” he chuckles. “I invited Ms. Marino over here today to work together.” He turns his full attention back to

“Ms. Marino, you can be the future global spokesperson of the Opal Group jewelry if you want.”

1. me.

Now I am genuinely surprised. My breath catches slightly. A jewelry brand like the Opal Group is an international powerhouse. As a rule, such brands have different spokespersons in each country–regional ambassadors. The title of global spokesperson is reserved for models with decades of industry clout or A–list international celebrities. But me? I became internationally known only as Moonlight, an identity I can’t publicize. To the world, I amount to just an ordinary person. The Opal Group is actually going to sign me to this kind of contract?

My practical side instantly overrides my shock. “Excuse me,” I ask, my voice steady, “but how much does a global spokesperson pay?”

Peter laughs out loud, a rich, hearty sound. He appreciates my

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