The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 332

Chapter 332

Cassian’s POV

The shattering glass is a sharp, satisfying punctuation to my fury. I barely feel the shards biting into my knuckles, but the blood wells up instantly, a dark, steady stream.

Adam is at my side in a second, his face pale. Mr. Blackwell, your hand!““”

My gaze is locked on the empty space where Gemma just was, where she walked away from me. Again. I shake my head, the motion tight with irritation. “It’s nothing. Just a scratch.”

It’s a deep laceration, Adam insists, his voice urgent. “You need a hospital. Now.”

I finally relent, but not because of the cut. Because she’s going there. It’s a pathetic, transparent excuse, but it’s the only thread I have to follow.

In the stark brightness of the emergency room, a doctor slowly cleans and bandages my hand. The sting of antiseptic is a dull echo of the humiliation burning in my chest. The plaid–shirted idiot sits a few chairs down, the alcohol now sweated out of him, replaced by a cold, trembling fear. He knows who I am nog. He understands the magnitude of his mistake.

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I turn my head, each word a chip of ice. “If you ever put your hands on her again,” I tell him, watching the color drain from his face, “a hospital visit will be the least of your worries.”

His shoulders hunch, making himself smaller.

The nurse tending to me glares, her professionalism a shield against my threat. “Sir, you cannot intimidate a patient in this facility, or I will have to contact security.”

I fall silent, rendered momentarily speechless by the sheer absurdity of it all. Here I am, bleeding and being scolded, all for a woman who looks at me with more contempt than she reserves for the drunken fool I just punched.

The world has truly turned upside down.

Gemma’s POV

Standing in the harsh, sterile light of the hospital corridor, Mikhail and I form a silent, grim–faced team. The air smells of antiseptic and failure.

“The software is installed. It’s undetectable. It should be fine,” I say, the words meant to reassure him, but they feel hollow in my mouth. The mission is technically a success, but it tastes like ash.

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It’s a bitter irony that being spotted by Cassian ultimately

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provided my cover for returning the phone. If he hadn’t caused that scene, my unfinished task would have been a glaring, dangerous problem.

I should be grateful for his interference. Instead, I’m just furious.

“Why would he suddenly explode like that?” Mikhail asks, his voice low with genuine curiosity. “What did that man actually do to you?”

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“He didn’t lay a finger on me,” I reply, my voice tight, frustration and a humiliating lump of emotion choking my words. That’s the most galling part.

Cassian’s dramatic, possessive display was over absolutely nothing I couldn’t handle.

Mikhail struggles to suppress his laughter, his shoulders shaking silently. I respond by punching his arm, not lightly. There’s nothing funny about this.

“It’s obvious he still cares about you,” Mikhail prods, recovering his composure. “Even after the divorce, he’s this protective. Do you regret it?”

I lower my eyes, staring at the scuffed linoleum floor. “Regret is a pointless emotion,” I murmur. The truth is, I genuinely

18+ can’t comprehend his persistent presence.

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He just materializes at restaurants, at poetry gatherings, in hospital hallways. It’s as if the universe is taunting me, ensuring our paths collide long after our contract has been terminated.

“Why not give him another chance?” Mikhail suggests, playing the devil’s advocate. “I think his intentions are sincere.”

I shoot him a glance that could freeze lava. “If you have nothing useful to say, do us both a favor and be quiet.”

“And what about the child?” he continues, undeterred. “Will you let me be the perpetual scapegoat?” He doesn’t mind the idea of more godchildren, he’s said, but taking permanent, paternal responsibility is another matter entirely.

“You might aspire to the role of father,” I state coldly, “but I do not consent.” Choosing a stepfather for my son is a decision I will not take lightly. The fact that Mikhail has a history of morphine addiction is a dealbreaker all on its own.

Just then, the ward door opens, and the two men exit almost in unison. The plaid–shirted man looks pale and sober, a world away from the drunken bravado of earlier.

“Are you alright?” Mikhail asks, adopting the tone of a concerned superior.

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“I’m quite alright. Thank you for your concern, Mr. Voloshin,” the man stammers. He then turns to me, keeping a careful, respectful distance. “Ms. Marino, I had too much to drink earlier and lost control. My deepest apologies.” He offers a stiff, formal bow before practically fleeing down the corridor.

Watching his terrified retreat, I understand perfectly the silent threat Cassian must have levied against him in the treatment room. But with our objective secured, I feel a wave of exhaustion and decide to let it go.

“Shall we go?” Mikhail asks, a little too casually. “May I escort you home?” The question is pitched just right, almost deliberately, for Cassian’s ears.

It works instantly.

“Gemma, you can’t go with him!” Cassian’s voice is sharp, his bandaged hand a stark white contrast against his dark suit, undermining his attempt at authority.

I turn a cool, indifferent gaze on him. “Who I leave with is none of your business.”

“Mr. Blackwell,” I continue, my voice dripping with sarcasm, “if you hadn’t decided to play the hero and punch a colleague, my car would still be at the restaurant. I wouldn’t be stuck here needing a ride.”

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I see the hurt flash in his eyes before it’s banked behind a wall of stubbornness.

He was just trying to protect me, but he’ll never understand that his protection is the very thing that suffocates me.

*****

Back at Urban Lane, Mikhail’s Maybach purrs away from the curb. The moment I step out, I see Zina leaning against the elevator bank, a knowing smirk plastered on her face.

“Well, well,” she teases, waggling her eyebrows. “A little late–night car service from Mr. Voloshin? Did you two finally go on a date?”

I let out an exasperated sigh and give her a gentle shove. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m a mother now, for heaven’s sake. It was a company dinner. A work obligation that went horribly wrong.”

“Who said a mom can’t be in a relationship?” she counters, her grin widening.

I decide to turn the tables. “Let’s talk about you. Didn’t you claim you went back to Glory Villa last night?”

Zina’s cheeks instantly flush a bright, tell–tale pink. She turns

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