The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 338

Chapter 338

Gemma’s POV

The silence of the car is a welcome relief after the storm of Blackwell Manor, but I don’t turn towards Urban Lane. Instead, my hands guide the wheel almost of their own accord, navigating the familiar streets until I’m parked outside Aronn’s restaurant. The warm, inviting glow from the windows feels like a sanctuary.

He’s at the host stand, reviewing the evening’s

reservations, and looks up in genuine surprise when I enter. “Ms. Marino?”

I offer him a slightly awkward smile, the weight of the evening still pressing on my shoulders. “Mr. Slater, do

you

have a moment to talk?”

He leads me to a quiet private room. I take a seat, my fingers knotting together on the polished table. “I need to apologize to you,” I begin, and then I tell him everything… About Claire’s toxic jealousy, the stolen photographs, and their subsequent explosion across the internet.

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I watch his face, apprehensive, waiting for the anger or blame that is my due for dragging an innocent man into my messy past.

Instead, he listens patiently, his expression calm. When

I finish, he simply nods. “So that’s what happened. Ms. Marino, you really don’t have to worry.” His voice is as gentle and measured as it was at the amusement park. “This won’t affect me much. And you said the Blackwell family is handling the fallout. I’m sure it will be resolved.”

He can see the lingering tension in my posture. “Please, don’t blame yourself,” he continues, his tone reassuring. “It’s truly not a big deal.”

His understanding is a balm, a stark contrast to the accusations and drama I just left. The tight coil of anxiety in my chest begins to loosen. Just then, my phone vibrates on the table, Zina’s name flashing on the screen. She’s probably seen the online firestorm.

“I’m still technically on duty, so please excuse me,” Aronn says politely, having glimpsed the caller ID. He gives me a small, understanding smile and slips out of the room, leaving me to my call.

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I answer as I step outside into the cool night air. “Gemma, are you okay? Aronn didn’t give you a hard time, did he?”

Zina’s voice is frantic with guilt.

“No, he was incredibly understanding about the whole thing,” I reassure her, and I mean it. For the first time, I think Zina’s initial, effusive praise of Aronn’s character wasn’t just empty flattery.

“Oh, thank goodness,” she breathes, the relief palpable.

I cut to the chase. “You’ve seen the pictures online.”

The dam breaks. “Gemma, I am so, so sorry!” she wails. “I never thought someone would do that! I didn’t mean to cause all this trouble for you!” She’s seen the vile comments, the netizens accusing me of being a two–timing adulteress, and she’s genuinely distraught.

I let out a soft sigh, leaning against the brick wall of the restaurant. “It’s fine, Zina. In a way, it’s almost a good thing.”

There’s a stunned silence on the other end. “A good thing?” she finally squeaks, clearly thinking I’m being 5:00

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sarcastic.

I explain my reasoning, the thought that had crystallized during the drive over. Cassian would never have voluntarily publicized our divorce. As a top executive of Blackwell Industries, a split, especially so soon after my mother’s death, would cause stock fluctuations and unwanted scrutiny. He would have kept it quiet for as long as possible. But now, thanks to Claire’s reckless bomb–throwing, he has no choice. To clear my name and stop the scandal, he’ll have to confirm we’re divorced. He’ll have to set me free, publicly.

Zina, however, hears this and assumes I’m just putting on a brave face. “Gemma, don’t be like that! It’s okay to be angry! Yell at me! And don’t worry, I’ll hack Twitter tonight and take the whole thing down!”

I can’t help it; a genuine laugh bursts from me. “I’m serious. Look, I need to drive. Let’s talk later.” I hang up, a strange sense of resolve settling over me.

I get in my car, but instead of starting the engine, I open my bag and pull out the one document I always keep with me now: the divorce decree. The paper feels both heavy An@light in my hands. I smooth it out on the passenger:00

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seat, take a picture with my phone, and then, with a few taps, I log into a Twitter account I rarely ever touch.

I don’t write a long, defensive essay, or engage with the hate. I simply attach the photo of the decree and type a single, unambiguous caption:

[Divorced. Single. Please mind your own business.]