The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 290

Chapter 290

Cassian’s POV

Liam pulls me away from the main lawn, his expression tight with a drama I don’t share. He finds a secluded spot behind a tall topiary, the manicured leaves a poor shield from the party’s hum.

“Are you really planning to use the restroom here?” I ask, my voice flat. The question is absurd, but so is this entire

conversation.

He looks at me, genuinely offended. “What are you talking about! Why would I pull you with me then?”

He sighs, “I wanted to ask if Rhett is now with Reyna?”

I slide my hands into my pockets, leaning back against the cool stone of a garden statue. “Seems like it.” My tone is deliberately neutral. It’s not my business.

“Rhett even sold that villa in the north of the city for Reyna?” Liam continues, his voice rising with disbelief.

I glance at him. “You’re quite informed.” The financial details of my friend’s self–destruction seem to be public knowledge.

“Cassian, we’re friends.” He slaps his thigh for emphasis. “We can’t just watch one of our own fall into a honey trap. We need

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to do something!”

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I understand his sentiment. The Whittaker family’s fortune is solid, but not bottomless like ours. It can’t withstand Reyna’s particular brand of consumption. But my patience for this topic is thin. “What can we do about matters of the heart?” I counter, my voice cool. “Even if its like hell, you can’t actually do anything for him.” Rhett has made his choice. He’s a grown man. He can lie in the bed he’s so eagerly making.

Liam opens his mouth, then closes it, finding himself at a loss for words. He knows I’m right, but he doesn’t want to accept it.

“Never mind. Asking you is pointless. I’ll figure something out on my own,” he finally mutters, waving a dismissive hand.

I don’t argue. I simply turn and head back towards the lawn, leaving him to his futile scheming. The crisp night air is a relief after his agitated energy.

As I re–enter the throng of people, my eyes scan the crowd out of habit, looking for a specific shade of lake blue. And then I see him. Jeremy Hartley, his 6.2–foot frame making him a visible landmark, standing amid the crowd. He isn’t just mingling. His posture is protective, his body angled as if shielding someone.

I move closer, my steps quickening.

And then I see her, standing within the circle of his presence.

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Gemma’s POV

The whispers are no longer subtle.

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They’re a buzzing hive, and I am the unwilling queen they’ve decided to swarm. Claire’s smug face is filled with outrage, and she’s brought in the big guns: Jeremy Hartley himself.

I watch as she and her flock of finely dressed vultures drag him over, their eyes gleaming with the anticipation of a public

execution.

They all want to see for themselves. They want the chairman’s son to personally declare me a fraud.

But without any tools to verify the necklace on the spot, Jeremy is in a difficult position. He can’t just pronounce it real on sight!

This is the highlight of their collection, and he has to be thorough. I see the conflict in his gray–brown eyes.

“Sorry, Ms. Marino,” he says, his voice low and sincere, “I can’t clear your name right now.”

He’s a good man, trapped by circumstance and his own sense of duty. I offer him a small, understanding smile. It’s not his fault. “It’s okay. It’s clear someone is targeting me. Your explanation won’t change anything.” Once a seed of doubt is sown in this fertile ground of envy, it grows into an unshakeable tree. The accusation, however baseless, has already stuck.

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Then, Mikhail is at my side, a solid, unpredictable presence. “You’re my employee,” he states, his voice carrying a protective edge that surprises me. “Don’t worry. I won’t let anyone bully you.”

I turn to look at his profile, a wry smile touching my lips. “What else? Are you going to throw them into Nassau’s minefield?”

He chuckles softly, a dark, intimate sound. “No need for that.” He leans in slightly, his voice dropping to a whisper meant only for me. “I brought a gun.”

The words are so stark, so utterly serious, that I’m genuinely stunned. My eyes lock with his. Is he serious? The intensity in his gaze suggests he might be. “Don’t be reckless!” I hiss back, a sudden spike of alarm cutting through my calm. We are not in some lawless foreign country; this is a curated garden party.

The tension is broken by a new, commanding presence. Cassian. I feel him before I see him, a shift in the air pressure. He steps into the circle of my tormentors, his custom black leather shoes silent on the grass. Before anyone can react, his arm is around my waist, pulling me firmly against his side. The gesture is possessive, definitive.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” his voice rings out, cool and cutting through the chatter, “I’m not sure what my wife has done to upset you all this much?”

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The crowd hesitates, their courage faltering in the face of his direct challenge. All except for the girl in the fishtail dress, who seems too foolish to be afraid. “Mr. Blackwell,” she says, puffing out her chest, “your wife brazenly wears a fake at the event. Isn’t that a bit disrespectful to the Hartley family?”

Cassian raises an eyebrow, a gesture of pure, unimpressed skepticism. “Who said my wife was wearing a fake?”

The question hangs in the air, a challenge no one can meet. They have no evidence. Jeremy has given no verdict. They have nothing but their own malicious speculation.

And then, a new voice, flamboyant and entirely unexpected, cuts through the standoff. “Everyone, sorry I’m late!”

All heads turn. A man in a shockingly bright pink vest, with hair to match, makes a grand entrance into the banquet hall. It’s Gavin Reed. I recognize him from industry profiles… the exclusive, eccentric designer for the Opal Group.

“What’s all the excitement about?” he trills, moving through the crowd with theatrical curiosity. “What are you whispering? I

want to hear it too!”

The crowd is utterly tongue–tied. No one dares to speak now.

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