The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 359

Chapter 359(revised)

Gemma’s POV

The next morning, Zina navigates the city streets, her curiosity a palpable energy in the car. “Let me get this straight,” she says, glancing over at me. “Meredith Bernard, finance queen and Bernard family heir, whom you’ve met exactly… twice, is just handing you the keys to a vacant property? Out of the goodness of her heart?”

I stare out the window, the same question having kept me awake for hours. “She said it’s sitting empty. That it’s a waste. Maybe she’s just… pragmatic.” The explanation sounds hollow even to me. People like Meredith aren’t just pragmatists; they are strategists. Kindness from them always has a ledger attached, even if the total is hidden.

“People with that much money didn’t get there by being generous to virtual strangers,” Zina mutters, voicing my own unease. “Something feels off.”

I can’t argue. But the address is already pulling us forward, a siren song of a solution I desperately need.

When we pull up to the gated community, Zina ‘s foot slips off the accelerator for a second. “Whoa. Gemma. Is this the right place?” Her voice is hushed.

I double–check the navigation. The name of the community is one whispered in articles about old–money dynasties, a place of quiet, evergreen exclusivity. The price per square foot here makes Mortland look like a bargain bin. I’m fairly certain even Cassian, with all his assets, doesn’t own a property on these particular manicured streets.

“This is the address,” I confirm, my own heart doing a strange little skip. “Let’s just… go see.”

We pass through the discreet security gate with a code. Meredith provided. The house isn’t at the end of a long driveway; it’s nestled among others of its kind, but it’s unmistakable. It’s not an apartment. It’s a four–story villa of pale stone and modern glass, with a front garden that’s more of a curated landscape, a swath of perfect emerald lawn that speaks of a full–time gardener, not neglect.

We stand at the wrought–iron gate, utterly silent. Zina finally reaches over and tugs my sleeve. “You’re sure we didn’t take a wrong turn into a movie set?”

I am speechless. I hand her Meredith’s crisp, embossed business card without a word, as if it’s a sacred text that might explain this insanity. We exchange a look of pure, shared bewilderment before pushing the gate open.

The interior is not “slightly renovated.” It is a masterpiece of 27.6. minimalist luxury. Soaring ceilings, floors of pale, polished stone, walls of glass that look out onto a private, walled courtyard. It’s utterly pristine, not a speck of dust anywhere, smelling faintly of lemon polish and money.

Zina’s head tilts back, her mouth slightly agape as she takes in a crystal chandelier that descends like frozen light from the fourth floor. “I think I’m hallucinating,” she whispers.

Before I can formulate a coherent thought, my phone rings. Meredith’s name glows on the screen.

“Gemma, have you seen the house?” Her voice is warm, casual, as if she’s asking about a cafe. “What do you think?”

I find my voice, though it sounds thin. “Ms. Bernard… this house is… it’s breathtaking. But it’s far too grand. My studio doesn’t require anything like this. It’s excessive.”

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