The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 341

Chapter 341

Claire’s POV

The drive back from Blackwell Manor is a silent, fuming torture. The second we’re through the door of our own house, I can’t hold it in anymore. I sling my brand–new Chanel bag across the foyer, watching with satisfaction as it smacks against the wall. That bitch. That absolute scheming bitch.

I never, ever thought Gemma would actually have the guts to divorce Cassian. Now the photos I risked so much to get are completely worthless. She’s not a cheating wife; she’s just a… a divorced nobody! The injustice of it burns like acid.

“Mom, you have to do something!” I whine, stomping over to where she’s already making herself comfortable. I can’t just take this lying down.

She doesn’t even look at me, just gracefully settles onto the sofa and snaps her fingers for a servant to light one of her obnoxiously expensive scented candles. As if that will fix anything.

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“Mom!” I practically shriek, my patience gone.

14 Bonus

“Enough, Claire,” she says, her voice a tired sigh. “If you hadn’t been so impulsive and posted those pictures online, she wouldn’t have had the upper hand. Now, be quiet.” She acts like this is all my fault!

“So, you’re just going to let her humiliate me like this?” I demand, my voice trembling with righteous fury. I will not be silenced.

Mom finally turns her head, her eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. “Of course not.”

A flicker of hope ignites in my chest. She can’t. I’m her daughter.

Just as she’s about to elaborate, the doorbell chimes. A moment later, aunt Natalie sweeps in, looking like she just came from a paparazzi shoot with her oversized sunglasses.

“I heard the news,” she purrs, not even bothering with a greeting. “Gemma and Cassian are officially divorced?” The story is, of course, all over the internet thanks to me. 2/7

14:49

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Mom doesn’t answer directly, just lets out a low hum. “Now that she’s no longer under the protection of the Blackwell name,” she muses, a cruel smile touching her lips, “shouldn’t certain… assets be returned to their rightful owners?”

Natalie sits down, facing my mother, and I see her eyes light up with pure, greedy anticipation.

Finally! Someone is talking sense.

Gemma’s POV

The morning at Dream International is supposed to be about firewalls and strategic planning, but my phone has other ideas. It’s been buzzing and chiming on Mikhail’s desk like a deranged insect for the last ten minutes. I see him glance at it for the third time, a faint line of irritation between his brows.

“Is your phone voice–activated?” he finally asks, his tone dry. “I don’t recall you being quite so popular before.”

I let out a frustrated groan, snatching the offending device. “Don’t even get me started.”

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14:49

The source of the commotion is a fresh kind of insanity. Since I woke up, my phone has been flooded with bank notifications. Transfer Received: $10,000. Transfer Received: $5,000. The payee isn’t listed, but I don’t need a name. I know exactly who has decided to turn my bank account into his personal messaging service.

Right after each deposit alert, a text follows from a new, unknown number.

[This is Cassian. Have you received the money?]

I roll my eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t stick. He’s figured out that I’ve blocked his number and all his socials, so he’s resorted to financial transactions. It’s pathetic, and yet, so utterly him.

My thumb hovers over the ‘block for this new number, but the next message that pops up gives me

pause.

[Don’t rush to block me. I’ll pay you one thousand dollars for each message you reply to.]

I freeze. A thousand dollars. Per message. The sheer, Audacious absurdity of it is breathtaking. He’s trying 16:49

buy a conversation. A part of me is deeply insulted. The other, more pragmatic part is already doing the math. I lower my phone, a strange, strangled sound escaping my lips.

Mikhail, who has been watching this entire silent drama, raises an eyebrow. “Are you… laughing?”

I’m trying not to. I’m trying to be furious at this blatant attempt to commodify my attention. But the image of Cassian, the mighty CEO, desperately wiring thousands of dollars just to get a text back is so ludicrous I can barely contain it. My shoulders shake with suppressed laughter.

I take a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. I need to change the subject before I completely lose my

composure.

“Mr. Smith messaged me. He’s returning from abroad next week and asked me to remind you to pick him up at the airport.”

The effect is instantaneous. The faintly amused look on Mikhail’s face vanishes, replaced by a grimace of pure dread. He mutters something under his breath that Sounds suspiciously like, “Damn it, I shouldn’t have 14:49

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