The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 337

Chapter 337

Gemma’s POV

Grandpa straightens in his chair. His eyes, usually warm when they look at me, sharpen with a sudden, grave seriousness.

Claire! What is Gemma referring to? Is that girl truly supposed to be in detention?

The blood drains from Claire’s face, leaving a blotchy, panicked mask. “Grandpa, I-” she stammers.

I know Zoey was a fading socialite, and the Opal Group project was her last, desperate gamble for relevance. She sacrificed everything–sleep, food, her health–for that one chance on the runway. Losing it broke her. But that doesn’t excuse breaking the law.

Why are you stammering? Grandpa’s voice cracks through the room, making everyone flinch. He is

truly, genuinely furious now. “I am asking you a direct question!”

Grandpa, she begged me! Claire cries, her words tumbling

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abandon her!”

There’s more to it, of course. Claire has never liked me. In her twisted logic, since I was the reason Zoey lost her contract, then Zoey’s enemy is her friend. It’s a pathetic, schoolyard alliance built on mutual spite. She pulled strings, called in favors, and sprung a woman who should be facing consequences. And in her anxious need to condemn me, she carelessly let Zoey’s name slip, never imagining I’d know or care about the woman’s legal

status.

This is nonsense! Grandpa booms, his fist coming down on the arm of his chair with a thud that echoes. “Do you have any concept of the legal jeopardy you’ve put yourself in? You will contact the Opal Group immediately and confess your role in this, or I will personally ensure you are no longer considered a member of this family!”

He is shaking with rage. I watch him, this proud, tired old man, and my heart aches for him. In his entire family, he seems to see only one person he can truly rely on… Cassian. The rest are a disappointing collection of fools and snakes, constantly forcing him to clean up their

esses.

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I look at Claire, her face pale and tear–streaked, and I can’t help but think she has truly lifted a boulder only to drop it directly onto her own foot. Sibille stands beside her, a statue of mortified shock. I can see the calculations whirring behind her eyes. She genuinely believed I would cling to the Blackwell name at all costs. The reality of my divorce, my freedom, is a variable her scheming mind hadn’t accounted for.

The front door opens then, and Cassian walks in. His presence is like a sudden drop in barometric pressure. His eyes scan the tense scene, and for a fleeting second, they find mine. But the contact is brief, impersonal. His gaze is as cold and detached as if we’d never met, sliding over me like I’m a piece of unfamiliar furniture before turning to his grandfather.

Gemma, he says, his voice a flat, neutral tone. “What are you doing here?”

I’m here to clarify the current nature of our relationship to Grandpa, I reply, matching his coolness.

My words make him pause. He takes in the strained expressions of his mother and cousin, and understanding 3/9

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dawns. The secret is out.

Grandpa, I— he begins, but Grandpa cuts him off with a sharp, dismissive wave.

Don’t speak to me right now.

It’s then that Cassian’s eyes land on the photographs scattered across the coffee table. His composed mask fractures, a flash of outrage overpowering his features. “Gemma,” he demands, his voice losing its neutrality, “what is the meaning of these?”

A small, humorless smile touches my lips. “You should direct that question to your sister.”

Claire shrinks under the weight of his glare. “Cassian, I… I was just worried she was being unfaithful to you! I was gathering evidence!” she whines, painting herself as a misguided protector of his honor.

Cassian doesn’t even bother to respond to her. He turns his full attention back to me, his expression intense. “Gemma, I know nothing happened between you and that man. I will burn these pictures immediately.” He Anderstands the danger. If these photos get out, the press

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will have a field day. More than that, I can see he doesn’t want the world to know our marriage is over. He wants to maintain that facade, for whatever reason.

Claire fidgets, looking like she wants to speak but is terrified of the consequences.

Why are you stammering? Grandpa snaps, his patience utterly spent. “If you have something to say, then say it!”

She flinches, and genuine tears well in her eyes.

“Grandpa… I… I already posted the pictures online before I came here.”

A stunned silence crashes over the room.

I’m sorry! she wails, a masterpiece of performative remorse. “I didn’t know you were divorced! It’s not my fault you didn’t tell me!”

She actually has the gall to paint herself as the victim of our poor communication.

You! You foolish girl! Grandpa points a trembling finger at her. “What did you expect me to do? Announce it in the Emily newsletter?”

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Sibille looks on, her face a mask of pure humiliation. This is her daughter, her creation, publicly unraveling and disgracing the family name.

Now, Cassian says, his voice clipped and authoritative, cutting through the drama. “You will issue a retraction immediately. We need to contain this and minimize the damage.” He turns away, pulling out his phone to call his assistant, already shifting into crisis–management mode.

I simply shrug. To me, the solution is straightforward. A simple public statement confirming my divorced status would render Claire’s “scandal” meaningless. The fuss seems unnecessarily convoluted.

I decide I’ve had enough of the Blackwell family drama for one night. I make my excuses to Grandpa, whose weary, apologetic look I return with a small, reassuring smile, and I head for the door.

I’m barely at my car when I hear hurried footsteps behind me. “Gemma, wait!”

I stop, my hand on the car door, and turn to see Cassian standing there, his usual imposing figure looking

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strangely uncertain under the manor’s exterior lights.

He hesitates for a moment before speaking. “For what happened today… I should apologize.”

I raise my eyebrows, genuinely surprised. An apology? From the man whose arrogance is usually his most defining feature? He’s actually learning.

It was Claire’s fault, he adds, almost as an amendment.

Then she should be the one apologizing, I point out, my tone practical.

He nods, a look of frustration crossing his face. “I will make sure she issues a formal statement of apology to you.”

I shake my head. “It’s not just me she needs to apologize to. There’s also Aronn.”

Aronn? The name is clearly foreign to him, and it slips out, laced with a confusion that borders on possessiveness.

The man in the pictures with me, I clarify, my voice

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