The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 350

Chapter 350

Gemma’s POV

The video plays on a loop on my phone screen, the grainy footage making our encounter look even seedier than it was. I stare at the fabricated subtitles, my stomach churning. [I don’t want to be with Zina.] What is this? How can anyone believe this clumsy, malicious editing? A quick scroll through the comments confirms the worst. The court of public opinion is in session, and I am the defendant without a lawyer.

[Just divorced and already sneaking around with a new man? Shady.]

[Maybe she was seeing him before the papers were even signed.]

[Definitely cheating. No one moves on that fast.]

They’ve even dug up old photos–me sketching with Aronn, the three of us at that gallery opening. It feels like a lifetime ago. I frown, the familiar weight of unwanted notoriety settling on my shoulders. It seems like only a 1/8

Kort time has passed since my name was last dragged

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through the digital mud.

Meredith, perceptive as ever, notices the shift in my demeanor. “Is everything alright?” she asks, her tone laced with a casual concern that feels practiced.

I force a light chuckle, tucking my phone away like it’s something shameful. I don’t want to burden a new business contact, a woman of her stature, with my petty scandals. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

She doesn’t press, instead offering a graceful exit from the awkward moment. “It’s getting late. Why don’t we have dinner together?”

I seize the distraction. “Then I’ll treat you,” I offer, a gesture of goodwill. “There’s a private restaurant I’m fond of. The food is excellent.” I brace for a polite refusal -someone like Meredith Bernard probably dines only in Michelin–starred establishments with panoramic city

views.

To my surprise, she agrees without hesitation. “That sounds perfect.”

He car is a low–key luxury sedan, its engine a quet hu4

of power. As I input the address into the navigation system, Meredith’s gaze is steady on the road. “That news you were looking at,” she begins, her voice calm. “It seemed unpleasant.”

I assume she’s worried about her investment, about partnering with someone whose reputation is being publicly shredded. “Please don’t be concerned, Ms. Bernard,” I reassure her quickly. “My professional identity is completely confidential. A strict NDA will be part of our contract. Moonlight’s reputation is spotless. What happens to Gemma Marino is… a separate matter.”

Meredith glances at me, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. “You misunderstand,” she corrects gently. “I was asking if you needed help. The Bernard family retains a dedicated legal team. If you wish, I can have them assist you with a defamation suit. Pro bono.”

The offer is so grand, so utterly disproportionate to the online gossip, that I’m momentarily stunned. The Bernard family’s lawyers are legendary, the kind who dismantle corporations, not fight Twitter trolls.

“That’s… incredibly generous,” I manage, “but it’s not 3/8

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necessary. It’s just online noise. I don’t need a legal cannon to swat a fly.”

“Defaming someone’s character is illegal,” she states, her tone turning serious, almost maternal. “And the court of public opinion can inflict deeper wounds than a real one. The damage should not be underestimated.”

Her conviction is surprising. “I understand,” I say, touched by her unexpected protectiveness. “And I appreciate the offer. Truly. But I won’t let myself be a victim here.” I’ve suffered enough in the first half of my life. I refuse to let anonymous commentators dictate my

peace.

My eyes drift to her hands on the steering wheel, and I notice a delicate, intricately woven silver bracelet around her wrist. It looks old, almost antique. “Your bracelet is beautiful,” I comment, wanting to shift the conversation to safer ground. “It’s very unique.”

Her fingers tighten almost imperceptibly on the wheel. The smile she offers me seems suddenly strained. “Is it? Thank you.” The subject is clearly closed.

the short twenty–minute drive, the digital storm 14:54

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intensifies. By the time we park, someone has snapped a photo of me getting into Meredith’s car. The comments have now escalated into a full–blown frenzy.

[Divorced and immediately being chauffeured in a car like that? She definitely has a sugar daddy.]

[Or a sugar mommy. Her personal life is a mess.]

[So many incidents in such a short time. It proves her character is rotten!]

Meredith says nothing. She simply reaches into her purse, retrieves a sleek, embossed business card for the Bernard legal team, and presses it into my hand. The gesture is final. I murmur a soft “thank you,” tucking the card away I like a secret weapon I hope I never have to use. For now, push the noise aside, determined to enjoy the meal.

At the restaurant, a cozy, wood–paneled space that feels a world away from the opulent place we lunched, Meredith studies the menu. “Any dietary restrictions I should know about?” she asks.

“I’m allergic to seafood,” I reply. “It makes me quite ill. 5/8

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Otherwise, I’m not picky.”

The hand holding the menu pauses. I see her knuckles whiten for a fraction of a second. “Anything else?” she asks, her voice a notch softer. “Any strong dislikes?”

“I’m not a huge fan of mushrooms, but it’s not a big deal. Please, Ms. Bernard, order whatever you like. Don’t feel you have to accommodate me.”

A slow, genuine smile spreads across her face. “It seems our tastes are quite similar, then.”

The dishes she orders are a revelation–rich, flavorful, everything Cassian’s bland, “refined” palate would have scorned. For three years, I muted my own preferences to blend into his world. Now, I feel like I’m rediscovering food. I mentally run through the list of pregnancy–safe foods my doctor gave me, deciding that for tonight, moderation is enough. Today, I will eat for joy.

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