The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 362

Chapter 362(revised)

Gemma’s POV

The last thing I want is more drama. My encounter with Tate has left a sour, metallic taste in my mouth. I just want to get in my car, drive home, and forget the manipulative gleam in his eyes. But the voices from the shadowed alcove snag my attention–one of them is familiar, strained with a tension that’s out of place on this quiet, moneyed street.

Against my better judgment, I glance over. And I see him. William. He’s backed against a rough brick wall, cornered by two large, angry–looking foreign men. Their postures are aggressive, their words low and threatening. Surprise flickers through me. The William I know is polished, composed. Seeing him like this, vulnerable and harried, is disorienting.

I hesitate for only a second. Walking into a potential altercation is stupid. But letting someone I know, however awkwardly, be intimidated feels worse. I stride over, my voice cutting through their muttered argument. “What’s going on here?”

The two men whirl around, their surprise evident. They weren’t expecting an interruption, certainly not from a woman. I don’t wait for their explanation. I hold up my phone, the scrgen blank but convincing. “I’ve already called the lice, 8:07 They’ll be here any minute.”

It’s a bluff, but a potent one. The mention of authorities, especially in this part of the city where security is omnipresent, has an immediate effect. Their bravado deflates. They exchange a look, mutter a few curses in a language I don’t understand, and with a final, menacing glare at William, they slink away, disappearing around the corner.

Once they’re gone, I turn to William. He’s straightening his jacket, a flush of embarrassment on his cheeks. “Why were they harassing you?” I ask.

He shakes his head, a look of weary exasperation on his face. “It’s absurd. They accused me of ‘looking down‘ on their culture because my restaurant doesn’t feature their country’s cuisine. They took it as a personal insult.”

The reason is so petty it’s almost laughable, but the underlying ugliness isn’t. “I’m sorry that happened,” I say, meaning it. Prejudice wears many faces.

“Thank you, Gemma. Truly.” He seems genuinely shaken.

“Did you drive here? If not, I can give you a lift home.” The offer is automatic, a gesture to close this uncomfortable chapter and get moving.

“I didn’t. I’d appreciate that, thank you.” He doesn’t hesitate, falling into step beside me as we walk toward where I’m 276 parked.

We’re just reaching my car, the key fob in my hand, when the low, distinctive purr of a powerful engine draws my attention. A black Rolls–Royce glides to a stop a few spaces down. The sight is like a punch to the solar plexus. I know that car.

The passenger door opens first, and a child—a boy of about five or six–hops out with energetic clumsiness. Then, the driver’s side. Cassian unfolds himself from the leather seat, his focus immediately on the boy. “Slow down,” he says, his voice a steady, familiar baritone that vibrates straight through me. The command is gentle, paternal.

I freeze, my hand on the car door handle.

“Gemma, get in the car!” William’s voice, sharp with impatience, cuts through my paralysis.

The sound makes both Cassian and the boy look our way. Cassian’s gaze finds me instantly, then flicks to William standing beside me. I watch his expression harden, a storm cloud gathering in his eyes. He says something quietly to the boy, who now clings to his hand, staring at us with open curiosity.

“Gemma, this is…?” William asks, deliberately. He knows exactly who it is. He’s drawing a line by forcing an 376 introduction.

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