The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 345

Chapter 345

Author’s POV

The black Lincoln idles at the curb long after the door to the Urban Lane apartment closes behind her. From the back seat, Grandpa watches the spot where Gemma disappeared, his shoulders slumped.

He lets out a long, weary sigh that seems to carry the weight of years.

Simeon, observing from the driver’s seat, speaks into the quiet. “Sir, you have more than compensated Ms. Marino for what happened back then. And that incident… it was not your direct doing.”

Grandpa waves a dismissive hand, the gesture frail. “I made a promise to take good care of her,” he responds, his voice thick with regret. “And in the most important way, I still broke that promise.”

For a man of his age and standing, credibility is his cornerstone, and its fracture causes him profound

You have done all anyone could, Simeon offers, trying to provide comfort. “Look at her now. She is building her own life. She is strong.”

But the words do little to ease the old man’s conscience. His gaze remains fixed on the silent building. “Has there been any news from there?” Grandpa asks, his tone shifting, becoming lower and more intent.

Simeon shakes his head. “Not yet.”

A trace of deep melancholy flashes in Grandpa’s eyes, a shadow of a past he cannot escape. “Then help me select a suitable time,” he instructs, his voice firming with resolve. “I will go over there personally.”

Sir, you’re still recovering your strength, Simeon argues, a note of surprise and concern in his voice. “The journey would be-‘

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I am old, Grandpa interrupts, his tone leaving no room for debate, “but I am not yet broken. This is not up for discussion. And you must keep this a secret from Cassian and the rest of the family.”

Seeing the unwavering determination on his employer $51

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face, Simeon knows further persuasion is futile. He gives a reluctant, single nod of agreement, the weight of the secret now settled firmly upon his own shoulders.

Gemma’s POV

The scent of fresh coffee fills the apartment, a small comfort against the daunting task of apartment hunting. Zina leans against the counter, her phone glowing with a list from Jeremy. “So, he says there are a few good properties in the downtown area that just hit the market,” she reports, her tone a mix of excitement and warning. “But they’re popular. If you’re serious, we’d have to move fast.”

My heart gives a little leap, but the calendar in my mind is already fixed. “It’s Saturday tomorrow. How about we go and check it out?” Zina suggests, looking up hopefully.

I shake my head before she even finishes. “Not tomorrow. I’m going to visit my mother’s grave tomorrow.”

Zina’s expression softens instantly. “Yeah,” she says, her voice dropping. “That is more important.” A moment of quiet hangs between us, filled with the ghost of my mother’s memory. Then, true to form, Zina’s brow 14:51

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furrows with a familiar, protective anger. “You know, I’m still mad about that. Why didn’t you let me and Jace help you with Lisette’s funeral? How much could you handle by yourself?”

I offer her a small, tired smile. She has a sharp tongue, but her heart is always in the right place. “There weren’t so many matters to deal with, Zina. Honestly.” The truth is a bleak one.

My mom didn’t have a circle of friends to notify; her illness had isolated her long before she died. The service was small, just a handful of family members. It was quiet, and in its own sad way, really not complicated.

“Do you think Reyna and her mother will try to cause trouble tomorrow?” Zina asks, her nose wrinkling in distaste. She never could stand the sight of them.

“Angela will be in jail for at least three years,” I remind her, the fact still carrying a cold sense of satisfaction. “As for Reyna… now that Cassian and I are divorced, there’s no one competing with her for the title of Mrs. Blackwell. She has no reason to come and mess with me anymore.” The game, for Reyna, is over. She won.

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Zina lets out a relieved breath. “Good. Then I’m coming with you. We’ll stop and buy some proper fruit and cakes for Lisette. She’d like that.”

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The drive to the cemetery the next morning is long. The plot I could afford on short notice is in the suburbs, a newly developed place where the silence feels vast and a little lonely. As we walk up the path, the morning dew still clinging to the grass, Zina carrying a bag of pastries and me with a bouquet of my mother’s favorite lilies, I see him.

A tall, familiar figure standing before my mother’s headstone.

“Why is he everywhere?” Zina mutters, her frown deepening. She makes a move as if to stride forward and shoo him away like a stray cat, but I place a hand on her arm, and we approach together.

The crunch of our footsteps on the gravel makes him turn. Cassian’s eyes, usually so guarded, look strangely open in the pale morning light. He sees the bags in my hands. “I planned to pick you up,” he says, the words 14:51

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sounding rehearsed.

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Zina lets out a derisive snort, crossing her arms over her chest. “Just admit you didn’t want to pick her up. What do you mean, ‘planned to‘? You’re all talk.”

I ignore her, my focus entirely on him. “What are you doing here, Cassian?”

I don’t wait for an answer. I kneel, placing my flowers and the offerings carefully on the ground. Then, my movements deliberate, I begin to gather the things he brought—an ostentatious wreath, an expensive–looking fruit basket. I don’t want my mother’s spirit, if it’s here, to be troubled by anything from him.

I feel his gaze on me, and when I glance up, I see a flicker of genuine hurt in his eyes. It’s a novel sight. “As Lisette’s son–in–law, of course I have to come and see her,” he explains, his voice low.

The irony is so bitter it almost chokes me. “Do you need me to remind you again that we are divorced? You’re no longer her son–in–law.” The words are cold and flat. In three years of marriage, his visits to her could be counted бnone hand. This performance of filial duty is too little; Sa

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decade too late.

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“Gemma, we were still married when she passed away,” he insists, clinging to a technicality. “I just wanted to see her off according to etiquette.”

“Cassian,” Zina cuts in, her voice sharp enough to slice through the morning quiet. “If you really want Lisette to rest in peace, you shouldn’t have come. Do you want her to see the man who mistreated her daughter for three years standing at her grave? Are you really not afraid of upsetting her?”

“Zina,” I say softly, tugging at her sleeve. This is not the place for a scene. I don’t want my mother’s peace disturbed by our anger.

When Zina falls silent, fuming, I look back at Cassian. The man I once longed to stand beside me at this very spot. “It’s too late, Cassian,” I say, and my voice is quiet, all the fight gone out of it. “In the past three years, I imagined it countless times–you, here with me, making my mom happy. But now… I no longer need it.” The finality in my own voice surprises me.

7hold out the plastic bag now filled with his unwante1:51

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offerings. “Take these back.”

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“If you don’t want to see me, I can leave,” he says, a stubborn set to his jaw. “But these are my gifts to Lisette.”

“Okay,” I relent, pulling the bag back almost instantly. The concession is just to make him go away faster. “I’ll take them. You can go now.”

I place the bag to the side, a separate, tainted thing, and turn my back to him, focusing on arranging my own lilies against the cool, grey stone. I listen for the sound of his retreating footsteps, waiting for the silence to become pure again, for it to be just me, my mother, and the friend who was actually there when it mattered.

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y, ʊny a hollow exhaustion. He was lost for words, and for a moment, I almost felt sorry for him. But not wanting to upset me further–or, more likely, not wanting to cause a bigger scene–he finally leaves. Good. Let him go.

Zina watches him disappear down the winding cemetery path, a scoff on her lips. “Your ex–husband is really something. Why didn’t I know he was so affectionate before?” The word is a weapon, sharp with sarcasm.

I turn away from the empty path, my focus returning to where it should be. “Leave him alone,” I murmur, the fight gone from my voice. I pick up the bag containing his offerings and move it aside, a tangible representation of pushing him out of this sacred space. Then, I gently place my own bouquet of lilies before the cool, grey stone. The silence of this place settles around us, heavy and profound.

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standing there, my fingers tracing the engraved letters of

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my mother’s name, the dam finally breaks. The words come softly at first, then in a steady stream, pouring my heart out to the one person who ever truly understood me. I tell her about the divorce, about the studio, about the constant, grating feeling of starting over. I tell her I’m trying to be strong. Tears I’ve been holding back for weeks stream down my cheeks, hot and unchecked. They’re not just tears of grief, but of release.

As I speak, I feel Zina’s presence beside me, a solid, comforting warmth. Her own eyes are glistening, her heart heavy with a shared sadness. “Mom, please rest in peace,” I whisper, my voice thick. “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine now. Things will get better with time.” I have to believe that. For her.

Zina leans forward slightly, her voice clear and earnest. “Don’t worry, Lisette. I will be there for Gemma. I’m her best friend. I will take care of her from now on!”

The promise, so simple and fierce, shatters the last of my composure. A sob wracks my body, and I lower my head, the weight of everything crashing down. Immediately, Zina’s arm is around my shoulders, pulling me close. We lean against each other, two women finding support and Comfort in a world that feels too often like a battlefield!:52

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