The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 295

Chapter 295

Gemma’s POV

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The moment the restaurant door slides shut, sealing William Clark away in his world of spices and flavours, I turn to Zina. She’s still staring at the door, a dreamy, far–off look in her eyes.

“He’s really quite charming, isn’t he?” she sighs, finally looking at me. “So… what’s your professional opinion? Would you?”

I let out a short laugh. I know Zina too well. This is her standard operating procedure the second a new man captures her interest. “Your whiplash is giving me whiplash.”

“No, I mean it this time!”

She insists, “I’m serious, Gemma.

I raise an eyebrow, taking a slow sip of my tea. “So you ‘seriously‘ broke up with your last boyfriend, what, five days ago? And now you’re ‘serious‘ about a chef you’ve met twice? Forgive me if I’m a little skeptical ‘serious girl.”

She glares at me, “I’m telling you, it’s different. William is… I think he and I could be a real match. I’ve decided I’m going to pursue him.”

She says it with the finality of a general declaring war.

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I can’t help but be a little impressed, and a little concerned, by her emotional elasticity. “You’re basing a marriage proposal on a piece of otoro and some well–rolled sushi?”

“People fall in love at first sight!”

“Some people also get food poisoning from bad shellfish! It’s a gamble.”

The way Zina can pivot from heartbreak to a new, all–consuming infatuation is both baffling and admirable, as if erasing the previous man from her mental hard drive.

“Anyway, you’re coming with me to the culinary exhibition tomorrow.”

“Absolutely not,” I refuse immediately. The last thing I want to be is a third wheel on her fledgling… whatever this is.

“You have to!”

She pleads, “I need you there. You have to help me win him over!”

I feel a familiar wave of helplessness. “Zina, the man has barely spoken ten words to me. How, exactly, am I supposed to help you?”

“Because, the Blackwell family is the main sponsor of the exhibition tomorrow.”

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I blink, realising what she’s proposing.

I had no idea… but the Blackwell corporate tentacles reach into everything, it seems. But I’m not about to go asking Cassian for details; that would open a door I’m trying to nail shut.

Seeing the stubborn set of my jaw Zina’s expression turns into a pout I know all too well. “Please, Gemma? For me? It’s just a few hours.”

I let out a long, defeated sigh. “Fine. But I’m just a spectator. I’m not getting involved.”

A brilliant smile breaks across her face. “Perfect! And it’s the weekend, so you don’t have to sneak away from Dream.”

*****

The next morning, I come downstairs to find Cassian already at the dining table, scrolling through his tablet. I take the seat across from him, and Chloe quietly places a plate in front of me.

I eye the breakfast Lauren has prepared. It’s a work of art, as always. A perfectly poached egg, avocado toast, a small salad. And a tall, condensation–beaded glass of pale yellow lemon juice.

My stomach gives a warning lurch.

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I can handle the food. But the lemon juice… the very sight of it makes my throat tighten. I push the glass slightly away with my fingertip.

“Is there a problem with the lemon water, Mrs. Blackwell?”

“I’m just not in the mood for lemon today.”

It’s a simple preference, or so I want it to seem.

Lauren’s pleasant expression doesn’t change, but a new stiffness enters her posture. She doesn’t address me. Instead, she turns her head and looks directly at Cassian.

“Mr. Blackwell,” she begins, her voice formal, “if Mrs. Blackwell is unwilling to follow the nutritional plan I’ve designed, I’m afraid I cannot perform my duties effectively. Perhaps you should consider another dietician.”

I stare at her, completely baffled. ‘It’s a glass of juice,” I say, a hint of irritation creeping into my voice. “Is this really grounds for resignation?”

“My role is to ensure you receive the necessary nutrients for optimal health,” she explains, her tone implying I’ve committed a grave sin. “If you selectively omit items, the plan becomes ineffective. I would be failing in my professional obligation by accepting payment for incomplete work.”

Her logic is airtight, yet it feels weaponized. I can feel Chloe

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tense beside me, caught in the crossfire.

I’m not trying to get her fired. But if she wants to quit over citrus, I’m not going to beg her to stay.

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“I wasn’t aware my personal taste was a professional insult.”

Emma, ever the peacemaker, quickly interjects. “Mr. Blackwell, the fault is mine. I failed to properly communicate Mrs. Blackwell’s dislikes to Ms. Baker. I apologize.”

Lauren, however, remains unmoved, her posture still rigid.

I try one more time, aiming to reason with her. “I didn’t mean to target you, I genuinely dislike lemons. Perhaps Chloe forgot to mention it. The vitamins can be substituted, surely. It’s not a catastrophe.”

Finally, Cassian looks up from his tablet. His gaze flicks from the offending glass to Lauren. His voice is calm, but it carries a quiet authority that settles the matter. “If she doesn’t like lemons, replace them with something else.”

It’s that simple. Why did it have to be such a theatrical performance?

Hearing his direct instruction, Lauren finally relents. The defiance in her shoulders melts away. “Understood, Mr. Blackwell.”

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