The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 381

Chapter 381

Gemma’s POV

William’s face lights up with a broad, relieved smile. “Of course! Take all the time you need.” Then, leaning in with a hopeful eagerness that feels meticulously rehearsed, he adds, “So… about that party in a few days? Would you consider being my date?”

I let my expression cycle through a believable sequel. surprise, hesitation, a touch of overwhelmed fatigue. I finally meet his eyes, offering a small, uncertain smile. “Can I give you an answer tomorrow? Today has been… a lot. I need to process.”

He nods vigorously, the picture of understanding. “Absolutely. I’ll wait for your call.”

The moment I’m inside my apartment with the door locked, the polite mask shatters. I pull out my phone and dial Zina.

“William just confessed to me.”

“What the actual hell?” Her shriek is so loud I have to hold the phone away from my ear.

“He also invited me to a party. In two days.”

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“Did you say yes?” Her voice is tight with alarm.

“Not yet. But I will. It’s the perfect opportunity.” This is exactly the scenario I’d hoped to provoke. Now that he knows the fall into the pool didn’t achieve its likely goal, the pressure is on. He’s getting antsy. Or rather, whoever is pulling his strings is getting impatient.

“What kind of party?”

“A charity gala, I think.” The social calendar for the elite is predictable; there’s always one around this time of y

“He’s going to try something at a charity gala?” Zina’s disbelief is palpable. “With half the city’s upper crust watching?”

A dry laugh escapes me. “Wouldn’t that be ideal? A public, crowded venue is the safest place for me. He can’t exactly drag me into a dark alley there.”

The logic sinks in. “Right… okay. I’ll bring Jace and Molly. We’ll be your shadow. Have you eaten yet?”

The abrupt change of topic throws me. I pause, realizing that between Linda’s emotional tsunami and William’s bizarre performance, I haven’t eaten since leaving Dream International. My silence is answer enough.

“I’m ordering you food right now,” Zina declares, her 2/7

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‘godmother‘ mode activating. “You’re eating for two. No arguments.”

I don’t argue. “Thank you.”

After finalizing details with her, I call Mikhail. The line rings once, then goes dead. A moment later, a generic automated message informs me the subscriber is on another call. Right. He’s probably with Linda, untangling decades of regret and poor communication. My issue can wait until tomorr

Settling at my computer, I find a message from Antonios waiting. [Ms. Marino, I trust you are recovering well?]

I type back a quick, polite reply, assuring him I’m fine.

His next message is all business. [The court summons was served to Lydia Turner several days ago. If a public retraction and apology are not issued within the stipulated timeframe, we are clear to proceed with filing the formal lawsuit.]

Reading his words, the drama with Lydia and Kitty feels like a lifetime ago. I haven’t seen or heard from them since the confrontation outside my building. Kitty must be drowning in panic, caught between Blackwell Industries’s massive financial claim and this impending defamation case.

[Thank you, Mr. Voss. If no apology is forthcoming by tomorrow, please proceed.] I hit send, the decision feeling 3/7

distant, administrative.

Just as I close the messaging window, a knock sounds at the door. Zina’s delivery, I think, grateful. I don’t bother with the peephole, still distracted by legal emails and thoughts of William’s smarmy smile.

I turn the knob and pull the door open.

It happens too fast.

A rough, coarse fabric is thrown over my head from a plunging me into instant, scratchy darkness. Strong as wrap around my waist, and I’m hoisted off my feet and thrown over a broad, hard shoulder like a sack of grain.

Panic detonates in my chest, white–hot and paralyzing for a single second. Then, instinct screams. As my kidnapper starts moving, taking the stairs two at a time with jarring speed, I find my voice.

“HELP! FIRE! FIRE, HELP!”

I remember reading somewhere that in an emergency, shouting “fire” is more effective than “help.” People are self–interested; they’ll run from a fire, whereas a cry for help might make them hesitate.

But my brain, scrambling, delivers a crushing follow–up 4/7

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thought. This floor. There are only two apartments. My neighbor is Jace. And Jace… Jace isn’t home today. I’d seen him leave earlier with his equipment bag.

The realization is a cold flood of utter helplessness. No one is coming. I am blind, upside down, at the mercy of a stranger who is moving with terrifying purpose. I have no idea who has me, or where we’re going. The only sound is the frantic pounding of my own heart and the heavy, rhythmic thud of his boots descending the stairwell, carrying me away from everything familiar.

Jace’s POV

I’m coming up the stairs, sweat cooling on my skin after a long session at the gym, when I see them. Two guys in dark hoodies, masks pulled up over their noses, maneuvering a large, lumpy sack between them.

My first instinct is to get out of the way in the narrow stairwell.

I press myself against the wall.

The sack brushes against my leg as they pass. It’s heavy, and it… shifts. A slight, internal movement. Weird. For a second, my brain registers the oddity, but fatigue blunts the alarm.

Maybe a big dog, sedated for a vet visit. People in this building

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have all kinds of pets.

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