The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 339

Chapter 339

Gemma’s POV

The final, damning words of Jace’s diary seem to burn on the page. [She’s divorced. Maybe… maybe there’s a chance for me now?] I stare at them, my own shock a cold, heavy stone in my stomach, mirroring the furious disbelief on Amanda’s face.

I feel like I’ve been walking around with a blindfold on, completely oblivious to the landscape of someone else’s heart.

“Finished reading?” Amanda’s voice pulls me from my daze. “The dates line up perfectly with your wedding, your misery, your divorce. It’s you. It’s always been you.”

I press my lips together, a futile attempt to steady myself. Her evidence is irrefutable. The vague, admiring entries from college have crystallized into a painfully specific, years–long narrative centered entirely on me.

The problem is, I’ve only ever seen Jace as a brother, a steadfast friend, a rock in my turbulent life. The idea that 168aw he saw me as anything else feels like a profound and

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uncomfortable betrayal of the simple friendship I thought we shared.

“Miss Hartley,” I begin, my voice sounding strained to my own ears, “I think you’re misinterpreting this. My relationship with Jace isn’t what you believe it to be. I have never, ever ‘seduced‘ him.”

My denial is like a spark on gasoline. Amanda springs up from the sofa as if electrocuted. “Stop acting!” she shrieks, her composure shattering completely. “Men might be fooled by your innocent act, but I see right through you! I’m not an idiot!”

I can see the retrospective fury in her eyes. She’s thinking of our last conversation, when I deflected her questions toward the corporate entity ‘Moonlight.‘ She believed me, and she’s been chasing a ghost, feeling like a fool while

was right in front of her the

the real object of his affection

whole time.

“Just tell me,” she demands, her voice trembling with a hysterical edge as she snatches/her purse from the table. “What will it take for you to leave him alone? Is it money? How much?” She fumbles inside, pulling out a wad of ash, her hands shaking so badly the bills flutter. “Nahi

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your price!”

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A wave of exhaustion washes over me. This is beneath both of us. “Miss Hartley, this conversation is over. Please leave.”

Her tears are sudden and angry. “Don’t play the virtuous martyr with me! You married Cassian for his money! We all know it! Why pretend to be pure now?” She’s screaming, the sound grating against my already frayed nerves, making my eardrums ache.

Just as she seems on the verge of completely unraveling, a firm, familiar knock sounds at the door.

“Gemma? Are you home?” Jace’s voice, laced with concern, filters through the wood. “I heard shouting. Are you alright?”

My eyes dart to Amanda. Her face transforms from rage to pure, panicked terror.

“No!” she hisses, her voice a desperate whisper. “Don’t you open that door! Don’t let him in! Do you hear me?” She’s begging, her earlier aggression replaced by a frantic Beed to hide her humiliation.

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But I’m done. Done with her accusations, her dramatics, her invasion of my home and Jace’s privacy. I am not her prisoner.

Jace knocks again, more insistently. “Gemma? Was that you? I’m getting worried.”

His concern, so genuine and kind, seems to be the final straw for Amanda. Her eyes wild, she looks around frantically before her gaze lands on the fruit knife I’d left on the coffee table after lunch. She lunges for it, clutching the handle in a white–knuckled grip.

“Gemma,” she whispers, her voice cracking, the point of the blade hovering near her own wrist. “Don’t open that door. I swear, I’ll do it. I’ll kill myself right here.”

A cold dread trickles down my spine. This has spiraled far beyond a jealous confrontation. She is mentally unhinged. But showing fear will only empower her.

I look from her terrified, tear–streaked face to the expensive cream leather of my sofa. My voice, when it comes out, is unnervingly calm. “Fine. Do it, then. But please, move away from the sofa. The leather is 4/8

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expensive, and bloodstains are impossible to get out.”

I see the shock register in her eyes. She was expecting pleading, panic. She wasn’t expecting cold, practical indifference. Before she can process it, I turn my back on her and her pathetic threat and walk to the door.

A guttural scream of pure frustration rips from her throat behind me, but I don’t hear the sound of a blade meeting flesh. She didn’t have the courage. I knew she didn’t.

I open the door to find Jace, his face etched with worry. But he isn’t alone. A man I’ve never seen before stands just behind him, his posture rigid, his expression grim.

“Gemma, are you-” Jace begins, but the stranger brushes past him, his shoulder bumping into mine without a word of apology as he strides into my apartment.

I frown, rubbing my shoulder. “Hey-”

My protest dies in my throat as I watch him. His focus is entirely on Amanda.

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“Tate…” she breathes, her voice small and instantly calm. The knife clatters onto the table.

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So, this is Tate?!

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The pieces click into place. Mikhail once told me about the messy Hartley family. Peter plays the devoted widower in public, but privately, his affections are scattered among multiple mistresses and their children. If this is Amanda’s brother, then he is also Jeremy’s half-brother.

“Do you have any idea who you’re dealing with?” Tate’s voice is low, but it carries a chilling authority. “Stop making a spectacle of yourself. You’re coming home with me. Now.”

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