The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 340

Chapter 340-2

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A few hours later, Zina arrives with Molly in tow, the scent of greasy, spicy food a welcome normality. “We brought you chicken wings,” Zina announces, holding up a bag like a peace offering. “I knew you wouldn’t have

eaten.”

I emerge from my bedroom, having dozed fitfully, and my stomach growls at the sight. It seems since getting pregnant, I’ve developed a fierce craving for anything spicy.

Did you ask Jeremy? I get straight to the point, bypassing the small talk.

Zina kicks off her heels and slides into her designated slippers. “Yeah. He said that one’s Tate Hartley. His mother was a foreigner Peter met traveling. He’s the third son.”

Tate Hartley. So, I was right. “Amanda showed up here

today causing a scene,” I explain, my voice flat. “Tate 1/6

came to collect her.”

14:47

Amanda was here? Zina’s eyes widen in alarm. “Why

didn’t you call us?” The protective instinct in her voice is a comfort.

It was handled. But, Zina… she’s not well. There’s something really off about her.

Zina plops down on the sofa, a knowing look on her face. “Yeah. She is.” She sees the question in mine and Molly’s eyes. “Jeremy told me about it before. She’s the only daughter, the baby of the family. Peter coddles her, but she’s always had… problems. She has these episodes, gets agitated out of nowhere.”

She lowers her voice, as if sharing a state secret. “It’s supposedly genetic. Her own mother had the same illness. Died from it, Jeremy thinks.”

A cold dread, separate from the spicy heat of the chicken wing I’m holding, washes over me. The pieces snap together with a horrifying clarity. The hysterical threats, the wild eyes, the brother’s fiercely protective, almost threatening demeanor. It wasn’t just a tantrum; it was a manifestation of a genuine, dangerous illness. The realization of how close I stood to the edge of that 2/6

14:47

particular abyss makes my skin prickle.

We need a better security door, I state, my tone leaving no room for argument. “Tomorrow. The strongest one we can get.” I might not be able to stop them, but I can definitely lock them out.

Gemma, what exactly happened today? Zina presses, her curiosity overriding her concern. “Why did she come after you?”

I don’t answer with words. Instead, I stand up and gesture for her to follow me into my bedroom. I pick up the file from my nightstand and hand it to her.

She opens it, her eyes scanning the familiar handwriting. Her face cycles through surprise, understanding, and then acute embarrassment. She snaps it shut. “Well…” she begins, then trails off, unable to find a suitable platitude.

You knew, I say, my voice quiet but firm. It’s not quite an accusation, but it’s close. “You knew Jace had feelings for

me.”

a has the decency to look chastised. “Gemma, she 4:47

says, choosing her words with uncharacteristic care, “Jace

cares about you, deeply. But he’s never crossed a line. He knows his place. You can’t exactly help how you feel, right?” It’s a weak defense, and she knows it.

I listen to her justification, a wave of profound helplessness washing over me. She doesn’t understand the core of the problem.

Don’t you get it, Zina? I finally say, the frustration and confusion of the entire day sharpening my tone. “I’ve only ever thought of him as a brother.” The words hang in the air, a simple, devastating truth that feels utterly inadequate for the complicated mess we now find

ourselves in.

The weight of Zina’s words, and the weight of Jace’s diary, presses down on me. From the very beginning, when I pulled a lost, desperate Jace from the edge and offered him a path, a skill, a purpose, my feelings were clear.

I saw a reflection of my own displacement, a kindred spirit who needed an anchor. I became that anchor. He was, and always has been, the younger brother I never Ha&, the one I felt fiercely protective of. The three or fou

years between us felt like a decade; the idea of looking at him with anything other than familial fondness is as foreign to me as the idea of flying.

“You didn’t know how he felt before,” Zina continues, ever the optimist, trying to find a silver lining in this uncomfortable revelation. “But now that you do, maybe those feelings could develop! You never know!” She waggles her eyebrows suggestively. “Who doesn’t appreciate a devoted younger man?”

“Zina, I am being completely serious right now.” My voice is sharp, a rare edge that makes her blink. I am not in the mood for her romantic fantasies.

She holds up her hands in surrender. “Alright, alright! I just feel bad for him, that’s all. Liking someone for that long… it’s kind of tragic. If you’re really sure you’ll never see him that way, then I guess you just stay friends.”

She sighs, a dramatic, heartfelt sound for a sunken ship she had been quietly captaining.

Her resignation doesn’t help, it just makes the knot in my stomach tighter. This knowledge is a poison. How am I Supposed to interact with him now? The effortless 14:47

dynamic we built over years feels irrevocably broken,

and the future stretches out, paved with potential

awkwardness.