The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 373

Chapter 373

Meredith’s POV

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nd

The party’s aftermath is a low hum of con suspicion in the grand foyer. I’m about to return upstairs when I notice a figure approaching from the dimmer part of the garden. Harry. But he’s a mess–his usually crisp white shirt hangs loose, several buttons missing, the fabric strained as if grabbed.

“Harry,” I say, my voice tight with a mix of irritation and fresh worry. “What on earth happened to you?”

He reaches us, running a hand through his disheveled hair, looking genuinely put–out. “It wasn’t my fault, Ms. Bernard. Someone grabbed me from behind and yanked. Hard. I’m just thankful they didn’t succeed in hauling me into the pool!”

Harry is a distant cousin on the Bernard family tree, the son of my father’s sister’s daughter. A cheerful, often chaotic presence.

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His words are a key sliding into a lock. My focus sharpens instantly. “Grabbed you? When? Was it when Gemma

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fell?”

He shrugs, still adjusting his shirt. “I don’t know her name. But there was only one splash today, wasn’t there?”

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A plan crystallizes. I need information, and i need it away from prying ears. I turn to the small, worried group still lingering–Zina, Nancy, Mikhail. “Please excuse me. I have a family matter to attend to.” Without waiting for a response, I take Harry by the elbow and steer him firmly into my private study, closing the door against the outside world.

He looks around, baffled. “What’s going on?”

“The person who fell, her name is Gemma,” I say, getting straight to the point. “Did you see who pushed her?”

He thinks, his brow furrowing. After a moment, he shakes his head. “I didn’t see a face. It happened too fast behind me. But…” He holds up his own hands, studying them. “The hands that grabbed my shirt to pull me off balance… they were a man’s hands. I’m sure of it.”

A/man? That gives me pause. I’d just listened to crem

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quiet inquisition, seen the way all eyes turned to Amanda. The narrative was forming neatly around her jealousy. But a man’s hands…

“You’re certain? You could tell even in

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Com motion?”

“Absolutely,” Harry insists. “A man’s grip, a man’s strength. No matter how delicate, it’s different from the ladies here. Their hands are for holding champagne flutes, not for nearly dislocating a man’s shoulder.”

He looks at me, curiosity overriding his earlier annoyance. “Who is this Gemma? Why are you so invested?”

I take a slow breath. Harry has been abroad for years, but he knows the family history. “Do you remember,” I begin, my voice lower, “the sister I told you about? The one we lost?”

His eyes widen. “Of course. That’s why you’re back, isn’t it? To find her. Do you… have a lead?”

A strange, thrilling certainty has been building in me since I saw that mark on her arm. The age. The faint, Beartbreaking resemblance in the curve of her

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cheekbone. The intuitive pull I’ve felt from the moment Mikhail introduced her. “I believe,” I say, the words feeling monumental, “I may have found her.”

Harry’s face breaks into an astonished grin. “Seriously? Where is she? That would make her my… a1

incredible!”

That’s

“It’s not confirmed,” I caution, though my heart is hammering against my ribs. “Not yet.” I give him a critical once–over. “But you, go and change. You look like you’ve been in a brawl.”

As he turns to leave, he pauses at the door, a practical thought striking him. “If you’re not sure, just do a DNA test. Simple.”

The suggestion is a lightning bolt. Of course. The direct, irrefutable answer. The moment he’s gone, I hurry back upstairs, not to the guest room where Gemma rests, but to the adjacent dressing room. Her damp, discarded clothes are still in a heap on the bench. My hands, I note, are trembling slightly.

I sift through the cool, wet fabric with a care that feels Both clinical and sacred. Finally, on the collar of the len

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shift, I find it–a single, long, dark hair, caught in the seam. I carefully pluck it free, holding it up to the light.

“You know,” a voice says from the doorway, making me jump, “you look like a thief. A very refined, very nervous hair thief.”

Harry leans against the frame, now in a fresh shirt, watching me with amused eyes.

I feel a flush creep up my neck, a rare moment of being caught in an undignified act. “Oh, be quiet,” I mutter, carefully placing the hair into a clean, sealed plastic folder I took from the desk. “You’re more trouble than you’re worth.”

We head back downstairs, and I press the folder into his hands. “You handle this. Personally. Go to the family’s usual private lab. I want it done discreetly, and I want it done right. No mistakes.”

He takes it, his usual levity replaced by a solemn understanding. He nods. “You have my word.”

As he pockets the sample, another thought occurs to him. The surveillance cameras by the poo… are they even09:37

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