The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 363

Chapter 363(revised)

Cassian’s POV

I sit in the restaurant’s plush booth, the untouched steak congealing on my plate. My phone is a dark, silent slab next to my wine glass. I’m waiting for a reply that I know won’t come, and the silence is a physical torment.

My mind, a traitorous engine, is conjuring vivid, unwelcome scenes. William in her passenger seat. William following her into that building at Urban Lane. William on her sofa, the glow of a movie playing across their faces. The domesticity of the image is a hot knife twisting in my gut. The more I try to shut it down, the more detailed it becomes, and a corrosive, helpless upset tightens my chest.

“You’re going to snap that fork in half.”

The voice, small and matter–of–fact, yanks me back. Remy, my nephew, looks up from his meticulously organized plate of pasta, his young face a mirror of calm observation I don’t feel.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” I mutter, the reprimand automatic. I rarely bring him out like this, a momentary lapse in my usual guardedness, and now I can’t even manage basic civility.

He shrugs. unperturbed by my chill. “No pretty lady is going to like you if you’re this grumpy all the time.”

The statement is so blunt, so utterly unexpected from a nine–year–old, that I just stare at him. Then I scowl. “You’re a child. What could you possibly know about it?”

He puts his own fork down with a solemnity that’s almost comical. “I know plenty. At my school, if a boy likes a girl, he shares his dessert. He gives her the good swing at recess. He tells the other boys to leave her alone.” His eyes, so like his mother’s, sweep over me in a swift, critical assessment. “What have you done to chase her?”

I am completely, utterly speechless. Since when did elementary school become a training ground for romantic strategy? A hot flush of something like embarrassment creeps up my neck. “Just eat your food,” I grind out. “Or I’m taking you straight home.”

Remy’s face scrunches in protest. He was trying to help, and I dismissed him, but I have no regrets.

The rest of the meal passes in a tense, silent stalemate. I have no appetite, all of focus is split between the silent phone and the painfully slow progress of Remy’s dinner. Every few minutes, my impatience boils over. “Are you finished yet?”

Finally, after the fifth or sixth time, he slams his cutlery down 276 with a soft clink. “I’m done. You don’t have to rush me!”

Relief is immediate. I settle the bill with brusque efficiency, usher him into the car, and drive him back to his mother’s house with a speed that borders on reckless. The moment he’s safely inside, I turn the car around.

I’m not going home. I can’t. The phantom images are back, more insistent now. I need to see for myself. I need proof that the scene in my head isn’t real. My hands are tight on the wheel as I point the car toward Urban Lane, driven by a sense of dread that I can no longer try to suppress.

Gemma’s POV

I towel off my damp hair, the quiet of the apartment a soft blanket after the day’s chaos. Padding into the living room, I’m about to sink into the sofa and lose myself in mindless scrolling when the doorbell rings–a sharp, impatient sound.

Zina left an hour ago. She must have forgotten something. Again. I shuffle to the door in my slippers, muttering under my breath. “I told you to double–check before you left. You never listen, and now you’re dragging me from my—”

I pull the door open, the rest of my complaint dying on my lips.

It’s not Zina.

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify