The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 374

Chapter 374

Gemma’s POV

is

The room feels like a pressure cooker after Meredith leaves. Cassian’s presence is a dense, silent fo earlier gentleness replaced by a watchful, simmering tension that makes the air hard to breathe. We’re locked in a painful, wordless stalemate. The relief when Zina finally slips inside is so profound it’s almost dizzying.

Not long after, Meredith returns, her expression a careful blend of concern and a sharp, assessing focus that feels new. “Gemma, how are you feeling now? Any lingering discomfort?”

I shake my head against the pillow. “Much better, thank you.” It’s mostly true. The cold, invasive shock has receded, leaving behind a general weariness. It feels like a bad chill, not a catastrophe.

“You should stay here tonight,” Meredith suggests, her tone leaving little room for debate. “It’s late, and you shouldn’t be moved.”

1sense it’s more than hospitality. There’s an intent

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behind her eyes, a desire to keep me close. Since she helped me change, her demeanor has shifted, charged with a quiet, burning curiosity.

“I couldn’t impose,” I say, shifting to sit up straig

“It’s too much trouble. Zina can take me home.

Zina, stationed like a guardian at my bedside, nods vigorously. “Absolutely. I’ve got her.”

Meredith doesn’t press, but her promise is solemn. “Very well. But know that I am here if you need anything. This happened under my roof. I will get to the bottom of it and give you a proper answer.”

Cassian, who has been a brooding statue by the window, finally speaks, his voice low and hard. “She said she was pushed. This wasn’t an accident.” The idea that someone would dare, in a crowd, to lay hands on me, seems to both enrage and baffle him.

Zina glances at Jeremy, who has followed her in, his face unreadable. “It has to be Amanda,” she states flatly. “Who else had a motive today? She has history.”

Apart from the vitriol in the bathroom, I can’t think of9:38

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anyone else either. I motion for Zina to lean in. When she does, I whisper, barely a breath, “She knows. About the pregnancy.”

Zina’s eyes widen in horrified understanding. “The ” it’s definitely her!” she hisses. Her mind clearl to the worst conclusion: a deliberate attempt to cause a miscarriage. The pool, a public, chaotic place, would provide perfect deniability.

She turns on Jeremy, her loyalty to me overriding everything else. “I’m warning you,” she says, her voice trembling with anger, “if you try to shield her just because she shares your blood, I will never forgive you.

Ever.”

Jeremy lets out a long, weary sigh. “That is not my intention, Zina. Sending her home with Tate was a containment strategy. Under our father’s roof, she is… manageable. She answers for her actions there. Here, with Tate enabling her, she is unpredictable.”

After another half–hour of resting, I feel steady enough. The lingering dizziness is gone. “I should go home,” I announce, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. 3/7

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“Ms. Bernard! We have a problem with the surveillance!”

The voice from the doorway belongs to the young man from earlier, the one with the torn shirt. Harry. I look at him, and a flicker of recognition passes through my for y

memory.

Then it clicks. In that moment underwater, my flailing hand didn’t grab empty water; it caught fabric. His shirt.

“You,” I say, my voice stronger. “You’re the one I grabbed in the pool.”

He offers a slightly rueful smile. “I wish I’d been quicker. Maybe I could’ve stopped the fall altogether.”

“Gemma, this is my nephew, Harry,” Meredith interjects smoothly, though her eyes are still fixed on him, alert to the ‘problem‘ he mentioned. “He’s a senior at university in Nuving, home on holiday.”

I study him again. Now that she says it, I see the faint familial resemblance–the same sharp cheekbones, the intelligent set of the eyes. It’s a strange, small–world connection.

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The need to see the surveillance footage is urgent now. I stand, but before I can take a step, the world tilts. Cassian is there in an instant. In one fluid motion, he bends and scoops me up, cradling me against his chest.

“Ah!” The exclamation is torn from me, my arms instinctively looping around his neck for balan

“I’ll carry you down,” he states, as if it’s the most logical thing in the world. His arms tighten, secure and unyielding.

My face flames. “Put me down. I can walk.” I try to inject frost into my tone, to glare at him, but he simply adjusts his grip, giving me a slight, settling bounce that steals my breath and any remaining protest.

Humiliated, I resort to hiding my face against his shoulder, blocking out the sight of everyone’s reactions.

In the monitoring room, he finally stops. “You can put me down now,” I mumble into his shirt.

“Standing will strain you,” is all he says, making no move to release me.

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