The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 326

Chapter 326

Gemma’s POV

The soft glow of the restaurant lights casts a warm ambiance

over our table. Jace sits across from me, the menu open between us like a shared secret.

Where’s Molly? I ask, noticing our friend’s absence.

“She had classes today, so she’s not joining us.”

་་་་

A soft Oh““” escapes my lips.

11

As we reach for the menu, Jace hands his copy to me, a simple gesture that feels inherently considerate. He then leans slightly toward the waiter. “No mushrooms in the dish I just chose,” he specifies, his voice low and clear.

I look up from the menu I’m holding. “It’s fine. You can have them.” It’s true, I’ve never liked the slimy texture, but my aversion isn’t so severe that I can’t bear the sight of them on someone else’s plate.

It’s alright, he says with a small, dismissive wave. “The mushrooms are just a garnish here anyway.”

He proceeds to order the rest of the dishes, like a unerring catalog of my preferences… the lightly seasoned sea bass, the salad with a specific vinaigrette, the roasted vegetable

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Lucky Draw

with still. “Jace, you’re too thoughtful!” I exclaim, genuinely touched. I am particular about my food, and I’ve always disliked the aggressive fizz of soda water, but it’s a minor thing, something I’ve always just tolerated.

No one has ever paid such close attention, has ever cared to note the difference.

He merely smiles in response, but his eyes, when they meet mine, are twinkling with a warmth and depth that makes my breath catch for a second.

“I remember you promised to make me lobster…”

He says, changing the subject with a light, teasing tone.

My own eyes light up with the memory, quickly followed by a pang of guilt. Oh, I’m sorry! I’ve been so caught up in work that I forgot all about it!“”

The best season for lobster is almost over, I’m still thinking when Jace speaks up.

We can always enjoy them next year. You’ll still be in Urban Lane, right?

The question is about much more than lobster. It’s about roots, about my future in this city after the earthquake of my divorce. 2/7

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That’s my home, I respond, a touch of amusement in my voice. “Where else would I go?”

My plans for finding another house are still vague.

You could stay at my place.

The words are a murmur, so soft barely catch them, spoken almost to himself.

What did you say? I lean in slightly, unsure if I heard correctly.

He quickly masks his true intention, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “It’s nothing. I just think Urban Lane is quite lovely.”

He’s afraid, I realize. Afraid of startling me, of revealing too much too soon.

After dinner, we walk side–by–side toward the Grand Theater. The evening air is cool, and as we navigate the sidewalk, a group of boisterous passersby approaches, taking up too much space.

Jace’s hand comes up, his fingers gently guiding me by the waist, pulling me a fraction closer to him to ensure I’m not jostled. The contact is brief, protective, and entirely instinctive. I, walking a half–step ahead, am spared from the fierce, possessive look he shoots the group over my head.

At the entrance to the poetry gathering, a stall sells collections

by Borges. “Do you have any favorites here?”

I shake my head. “I have all his works.”

3/7

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The statement brings with it a sudden, sharp memory. The books. My beautiful, limited–edition hardcovers, ench signed by the publisher, are still sitting on the shelves in Cassian’s study. In my haste to leave, the sheer number of them felt too cumbersome to pack.

What’s the matter?

It’s nothing, I say, shaking off the melancholy. “I just remembered I need to retrieve my poetry collection later.”

I don’t want them left there, neglected relics of a life I’ve abandoned. Hearing I’m headed back to Oakhaven, his offer is immediate and gentle. “Then I’ll accompany you. I can help with the books.”

I nod, grateful. “There’s no rush.‘

Inside, the poetry gathering is nothing like I expected. Borges‘ poems are projected in shimmering, three–dimensional script onto the walls, the words swirling and reforming.

The theater’s exhibition hall has been transformed into an interactive art experience, drawing a mix of serious literature lovers and influencers seeking the perfect, ethereal backdrop for their social media feeds.

During my college years, my favorite book was Rabindranath Tagore’s ‘Stray Birds,‘ Jace says, his voice close to my car as we move through the dreamlike space. “If not for you, I wouldn’t have discovered Borges.”

fe trails behind me as we walk, our conversation a comfortabi85

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read him every day in college.

(P) Lucky Draw

Tagore is remarkable, I reply, falling easily into the familiar debate. “But I find ‘Gitanjali‘ even more captivating than ‘Stray Birds.“”

As we stroll through the exhibit, we delve into philosophical discussions about time, memory, and love. I feel a sense of intellectual and emotional joy I haven’t experienced in a long, long while.

My laughter, comes easily, and I feel my long hair sway with each light step I take.

The moment feels perfect, insulated from the world. “I’m going

to the restroom.”

I tell him, nodding slightly toward the back of the hall. He smiles. “I’ll be here.”

I weave through the crowd, the projected words of poems brushing past me like ghostly fingertips. I feel light, unburdened. For the first time in years, I am simply Gemma, a woman enjoying an evening of poetry with her friend, who listens, who remembers, who sees her.

Pushing the restroom door open, I step into the brighter light. I take a moment, leaning against the wall, a small smile on my lips.

But leaning against the wall opposite the restroom door, as if he has been waiting there for an eternity… a familiar, formidable figure that shatters my fragile peace into a thousand sharp

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Cassian’s POV

Lucky Draw

The drive over was a blur, a frantic race against the clock fueled by a single, desperate fear: that she wouldn’t come. That the ticket would be ignored, but then I see her.

She emerges from the main hall into the corridor, a soft, unguarded smile on her lips, her posture relaxed in a way I haven’t seen in years.

The tight coil of anxiety in my chest finally loosens.

You’re really here!

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