The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 380

Chapter 380

Gemma’s POV

Linda’s head dips in a gesture of profound shame.

“You’re right. I know you are. This is my own mess. I truly believed I’d let Mikhail go. When I saw him bring you to the club that night, my wish for his happiness was genuine.”

ail

Even now, she’s operating under the assumption that and I are a couple, and I don’t correct her. It’s not my truth to tell.

“But that ring…” Her voice breaks. “Seeing it on your finger… it was like a mirror showing me my own stupidity.”

The confession is raw. She never let go. She just walked away and built a life on top of the buried feelings.

“So, you don’t love your husband?” The question escapes me before I can stop it. I see a twisted reflection in her story. Her patient, kind husband is like me, giving everything to someone emotionally absent. And she, clinging to a ghost, is Cassian, unable to commit to the present because of a past he can’t release.

Linda looks stunned, as if the question has never been framed $9 bluntly. “I… I don’t know.” She shakes her head, helples$5:06

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“It’s absurd, I know, coming to you like this. I know what I should do. I should forget Mikhail and commit to my marriage. But it’s like I’m two different people. With my husband, I am one person, steady, grateful, calm. The memory of Mikhail… it’s a different universe.”

I recognize the conflict. It’s the human curse of the road not taken. We romanticize the path we abandoned, convincing ourselves it was paved with gold, while the path we’re on seems fraught with rocks. The truth is, both paths have rocks. Both lead to regret. No choice guarantees contentment.

“Miss. Xander,” I say, my tone shifting from perso. detached, “this is your private matter. It’s not my place to intervene. As for Mikhail and me, you needn’t concern yourself.”

I feel like an audience member at a play, curious about the next act. “If you have all these unresolved feelings, perhaps you should take them to him. Tell him everything you just told me.”

I’m genuinely curious. After his visible anguish at her wedding, what would Mikhail Voloshin do with a second chance? Would the hardened soldier choose the ghost of first love?

Linda blinks, surprised. “Ms. Marino… you’re not angry?”

She seems baffled by my calm. She just confessed lingering

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feelings for my supposed boyfriend, and I’m advising her to go talk to him.

A small, humorless smile touches my lips. “I’m not angry.” I finish the last of my tea and stand, signaling the end of our confession. “If you have regrets, try to resolve them. Don’t spend the rest of your life wondering ‘what if.” I don’t know what the right answer is for her–whether to blow up her marriage or bury the past deeper. But I know a life built on a foundation of silent regret is no life at all.

“The ring…” she starts, her eyes drifting again to mmpty finger.

“The ring isn’t with me,” I state plainly. “I’m not married. It wasn’t appropriate for me to keep a family heirloom.” I maintain the lie. I won’t reveal the truth of my divorce or the ring’s return to Cassian. Mikhail’s feelings are his own to disclose, not mine to manage.

*

Leaving the cafe, the weight of Linda’s unresolved drama is replaced by a more immediate sense of tension.

Back at Urban Lane, I see William, standing idly near the garden, as if waiting for the bus. My blood runs cold for a second before I lock my expression into one of casual, cool distance.

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I walk over, my steps deliberate. “Mr. Clark. Fancy seeing you here.

He turns, his smile as gentle and unassuming as ever. There is not a single flicker of guilt, no shadow of the man who watched me fall into a pool. “Just taking some air. I was thinking,

there’s a gallery opening this weekend. I wondered if you might have time to accompany me.”

“Mr. Clark,” I say, letting the chill deepen, “I don’t believe our relationship is on those terms.”

His composure wavers, just a fraction. A faint flush touches his cheeks. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to overstep. And I certainly didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

The fluster seems genuine, in contrast to his usual polished calm. It’s a good act.

“Is there something you wanted to tell me?”

I press, watching him closely. I sense a crack, a pressure building behind his polite smile.

William takes a deep, shaky breath. He opens his mouth,

closes it, and looks away, his shoulders slumping with a visible defeat.

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His eyes scan the surroundings frantically, landing on the 24–hour convenience store across the street. A strange resolve hardens his features. “Ms. Marino… could you wait for me? Just three minutes?”

Intrigued, I nod. “Three minutes.”

He strides across the street and disappears into the store. Three minutes later, he returns, empty–handed. I’m puzzled until he steps closer, and I catch the sharp, clean scent of alcohol on his breath.

“You went for a drink?” I ask, incredulously.

Did he duck into a convenience store to buy a bottle, and chugged it in the alley?

His eyes are slightly glazed now, his focus softer. “I….. I couldn’t say it sober,” he slurs, just a touch. The liquid courage is a new, desperate layer to his performance.

“Miss. Marino,” he blurts out, the words rushing together. “I have feelings for you. I was wondering if you’d be willing to give me a chance!”

He finishes, breathless, and looks at me with a hopeful, earnest vulnerability in his eyes.

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“A chance for what, exactly?”

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