The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 301

Chapter 301

Reyna’s POV

Of course. Lisette has always been Gemma’s only true weakness. If something were to happen to her mother, something Gemma blamed on the Blackwell family… the divorce would be inevitable.

She would run and never look back.

“But since the last incident, Gemma has that hospital locked down tighter than a fortress,” I point out, frustration creeping in. I think of my last visit to Lisette’s room, how I’d tried to push her just enough… but I’d failed. She’s still alive, swaddled in layers of security.

It was a misstep.

My mother’s lips curl into a slow, cunning smile. It’s a look I know well, and it rarely leads anywhere good. “If we can’t get in, then we just have to find a way to get her out.”

I stare at her. “What are you talking about? What way?”

But she just shakes her head, that infuriating, knowing smile still plastered on her face. “Don’t you worry about the details. Just trust your mother. I’ll handle it.”

I take a deep, steadying breath, trying to quell the unease rising in my chest. “Mother,” I say, my voice deadly serious. “Please. Do not create another catastrophe I have to clean up. Do you5:20 have any idea how hard it was to settle your last gambling debt?

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The mountain of money I had to repay, the humiliation… it all started with her addiction. If she drags me into another one of her reckless schemes, I don’t know if I can survive it.

Gemma’s POV

The phone line crackles with silence after I lay out the brutal, logical case for surgery.

For a long moment, the only sound from Mr. Smith’s end is the faint sound of his breathing.

“Moonlight,” he finally says, his voice gravelly with a reluctance I can almost feel. “I need you to look after him for me. I can’t be there. This dependency… it’s been going on a long time. The withdrawal will be quite severe.”

The unspoken request is clear. He’s not just asking me to watch over Mikhail; he’s asking me to oversee his detox.

To be the warden of his pain.

“I understand the challenge, but that’s precisely why I’m suggesting the surgery. Think about it, Mr. Smith. As long as that shrapnel is in his body, the pain will always be there. It’s a constant, physical trigger. If the pain becomes unbearable, his instinct will be to seek relief. It’s human nature. He’s not weak, he’s in agony.”

I try to make him see the cycle. Mikhail isn’t a fool. He knows the relief the pills bring. Having that escape hatch, that guaranteed end to the torment, makes it almost impossible to permanently close.

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And even if he somehow manages to break the dependency through sheer will, what happens the next time the wound flares

up?

Kicking the habit would just mean condemning himself to a different kind of unmedicated hell.

“The success rate for the procedure isn’t high-”

“But it’s not zero,” I insist, “There is still a chance. Isn’t a chance at real life better than a guaranteed sentence of pain and

addiction?”

I truly believe Mikhail would choose the gamble. He’s a soldier at heart.

“I… I need to think about it,” Smith finally says, the words dragged out of him. “I can’t give you an answer right now.”

“Of course,” I reply, softening my tone. “Whatever you decide, I’ll respect it.” I end the call, the weight of the unresolved conversation pressing down on me.

I turn, and my breath hitches. Mikhail is standing right behind me, leaning against the wall. He’s still pale, the IV pole clutched in Harold’s hand beside him, narrating the story of his failed

escape attempt.

“Weren’t you supposed to be in bed?”

He ignores the question, “He won’t agree to the surgery.”

He states, his voice flat, devoid of emotion.

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A bitter, knowing smile touches his lips. “As long as I need the pills, I have to listen to him. If I’m healed, what leverage does he have left?”

The cold cynicism of the statement makes me frown. “I don’t believe Smith is like that.”

I’ve seen the genuine worry in the man’s eyes, heard the exhaustion in his voice. But Mikhail just shrugs, as if my naivete

is tiresome.

“Don’t waste your energy. He won’t agree.” He clearly doesn’t want to discuss it further, and frankly, with Smith still deliberating, neither do I. Arguing about his paranoia won’t help.

“You should go back and rest—”

“Can’t. There’s a company meeting.”

He dismisses, already starting to fiddle with the IV line in his hand. A headache begins to pulse behind my eyes. “I’ll handle it for you.”

He raises an eyebrow, a flicker of his old smirk returning. “And what capacity would you be acting in, exactly?”

He has a point. I have no official standing at Dream International. I’m just….. me.

Then, his expression shifts, “Although… if you really want to help, it’s not impossible. There is a partnership deal on the table. If you can negotiate a twenty percent increase in profit for

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Twenty percent? He must be deligious from the pain or the withdrawal. No business partner in their right mind would agree to such a hike out of the blue.

“You’re impossible!”

I mutter, watching as his fingers go back to the IV catheter.

“Can’t do it? Then don’t trouble yourself. I’ll go.” He starts to pull again

“Wait!” The word is out of my mouth before I can stop it. Fine. If this is what it takes to keep him from collapsing in a boardroom, so be it.

Whether I succeed or fail spectacularly, at least he’ll be stuck here for the day. “I’ll go.”

“Alright then! Harold, give her the file.”

Harold, ever the loyal assistant, juggles the IV pole and uses his phone to send a document to mine. I open it, my eyes scanning

the details.

And then I freeze… the partnering company is Blackwell

Industries.

I look up, meeting Mikhail’s smug, triumphant gaze. “You did this on purpose!”

He has the audacity to look innocent. “Mr. Blackwell is your husband. I assumed it would make negotiations smoother. I’m actually doing you a favor.”

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“Well, thank you so much,” I bite out, the words dripping with sarcasm. Snatching my phone, I turn on my heel and stalk toward the elevator.

“Where are you going?” he calls after me, laughter in his voice.

Standing in the elevator, the doors sliding shut, I give in to a moment of pure, childish frustration and flip the bird in the general direction of his room.

Where else would I be going? The meeting is in less than an hour. I have to go to Dream International and prepare to negotiate with my own husband for a deal I know is stacked against me.

Damn capitalist!

The partnership is for Dream International to make Blackwell Industries its exclusive carrier.

It’s a huge deal… Dream isn’t just a finance company; its entertainment arm is a powerhouse, with artists constantly jetting around the globe. Securing this contract would mean a river of steady, high–value revenue flowing directly into Cassian’s company.

And my impossible task is to show up and demand that the river be twenty percent wider.

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