The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 370

Chapter 370

Gemma’s POV

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The walk back to Urban Lane with William is conducted in a silence that’s more weary than awkward.

For about an hour, I point out the community gym, the parcel lockers, the best exit for morning traffic, my voice a flat monotone. “It’s not a huge complex,” I conclude, standing outside his new building. “You’ll get the lay of the land quickly if you just walk around a bit.”

The pall from the disastrous dinner still hangs over me, a low–grade gloom I can’t shake.

William, ever polite, seems to sense it. “Thank you for the tour. And… I apologize again for earlier. I didn’t anticipate running into that particular group. Please, allow me to make it up to you with a proper meal another time.”

I shake my head, the motion tired. “It wasn’t your fault.” Restaurants are public spaces, Collisions with the past are an occupational hazard of leaving the house. 1/7

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Back in my own apartment, a long, hot shower finally washes some of the psychic grime away. I’m wrapped in a towel, my hair dripping, when my phone buzzes on the vanity.

A message from Cassian. [I’m sorry about tonight. I didn’t bring Reyna. Please don’t misunderstand me.]

I stare at the words on the screen. They’re an explanation, maybe even a plea. A year ago, six months ago, my heart would have leapt, my fingers would have flown to type a response… forgiving, questioning, something.

Now, I just feel a hollow exhaustion. I don’t know what to say. The habit of immediate, emotional engagement with

him is broken.

I place the phone face down and don’t reply.

****

The day of Meredith’s pool party arrives, and brings a sense of apprehension with it.

I can swim, but the idea of putting on a swimsuit and Butting my changing, pregnant body on display à 09:36

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crowd of near–strangers and acquaintances feels deeply exposing.

Zina, sprawled on my sofa demolishing a bag of chips, rolls her eyes. “Have you looked in a mirror? You could wear dental floss and look incredible. Go for it! Make an

entrance!”

But it’s not about confidence. It’s about privacy, about the tiny, secret life taking root inside me. I have no intention of getting in the water.

At seven, I arrive at the villa. The same butler, Robert, greets me with a warm smile. “Ms. Marino. Ms. Bernard has been eagerly awaiting your arrival.”

I’m taken aback. “I thought it was a larger party.”

“Ms. Bernard is upstairs. You may go straight up.”

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Walking through the lower level, I catch glimpses of the glittering pool through floor–to–ceiling windows. Familiar figures are already there―Liam’s boisterous laugh, Mikhail’s quieter presence. The scene is a minefield.

Upstairs, Meredith is a vision in a sleek emerald wrap!9:36

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“Gemma! There you are!” Her enthusiasm, as always,

feels intense, focused. I keep telling myself I’m overthinking it, that this is just her personality.

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“No swimsuit?” she asks, noting my simple linen shift.

“I’m not really in the mood to swim,” I deflect.

“Nonsense! I have dozens. All new, with tags. You must try one.” She leads me to a dressing room that looks like a boutique, racks filled with designer swimwear.

I hold up a hand, my other drifting unconsciously to rest low on my stomach. “Really, Ms. Bernard, I’d prefer to stay dry today.”

She doesn’t push, just nods, and we head back down together.

The pool area is now in full swing. Mikhail spots me and raises his glass in a silent salute. I nod back. And then I see him.

Cassian.

He’s a stark anomaly among the barely dressed men, 09:36

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standing rigid in a full, dark suit, as if he’s just come from a board meeting. He looks profoundly out of place and completely unconcerned about it.

Meredith leans in, her whisper amused. “Your ex–husband has a certain… consistency. He mirrors your reluctance to undress.”

I say nothing.

As we descend, Meredith is immediately swarmed by guests. I find myself momentarily alone, a small island in the social current.

Mikhail materializes beside me. “Get anything to eat? They have an impressive seafood spread over there.”

Before I can form an answer, Cassian’s voice cuts in, hard and definitive. “She’s allergic to seafood.”

Mikhail turns, a slow, challenging smile spreading across his face. “Impressive recall, Mr. Blackwell. Remembering your ex–wife’s allergies.”

The comment startles me, too. I remember a lifetime of picked–at shrimp cocktails, of politely pushing selfi§R:36

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