The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 383

Chapter 383

Gemma’s POV

After the world went dark and rough, I’m thrown into a confined, jostling space. I hear the distinct thunk of a car door, then another. An engine rumbles to life, and we start moving.

Panic is running like a live wire in my chest, but I force it down.

I need to think.

I twist and push against the coarse fabric of the sack, trying to find a seam I can manipulate. But my efforts are useless; the material is quite thick. I can barely make out two blurred shapes in the front seats through the loose weave, but their features are indistinguishable.

My voice, when I find it, is steadier than I feel. “Whoever you are. Whatever you’re being paid, I will double it. Triple it. Let me go right now, and I will forget this ever happened. No police. No consequences. Just name your price.”

I assume it’s about money. It’s always about money.

The figure in the passenger seat turns. I see the dark outline of a head. “Shut up back there,” a male voice grunts. “We have professional standards. We don’t want your money.

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The refusal, so blunt and final, sends a new, colder kind of fear spearing through me. Not money?

Then it’s probably personal… or it’s permanent..

A chill breaks out across my skin, a cold sweat that has nothing to do with the stuffy sack.

The drive feels endless. When the car finally stops, the sounds change, echoey, hollow, with the distant, briny smell of fish and stale ice. They haul me out, the sack still over my head. My feet stumble on uneven ground. Then, I’m inside some the air damp and still. The sack is yanked off.

‘e,

Blinking in the weak, flickering light of a single bare bulb, I take in my surroundings: a decaying wooden shack, walls stained with moisture. Before I can even open my mouth to scream, a foul–tasting rag is shoved between my teeth, choking off any sound. Then, rough, thick rope bites into my arms and torso as I’m secured to a rickety wooden chair.

I look at my captors. Two men, both wearing black ski masks. Only their eyes are visible:hard, focused, unfamiliar. I don’t know them at all.

I stay silent, watching. One paces. The other checks his phone. When it rings, his whole posture changes. He turns away, his voice dropping into a soft, gentle cadence I’d never have

2/6

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imagined. “I’ll be home soon, baby. You be good for Daddy and go to sleep. I’ll be there when you wake up.” A father. A loving father. The incongruity is staggering.

The other man makes a call too, his tone all business. “We have the package. When do we get the rest of the payment?” A short, terse conversation follows. He hangs up. “We wait. He comes, we get paid, we go.”

He. So there is a client. A specific he.

I need to talk. Now is the time, while the client isn’t } while the father’s call might have stirred some latent conscie. But the gag renders me mute. Frustration and a fresh wave of nausea, likely from the pregnancy and the adrenaline crash, twist my stomach. I start to retch violently against the rag, my body convulsing, tears springing to my eyes from the strain.

Seeing me in genuine physical distress, the two exchange a look. The father–figure nods. “Take it out. It’s the middle of nowhere. Who’s gonna hear her?”

The rag is pulled from my mouth. I drag in huge, grateful gulps of the dank air.

“Listen to me,” I say, my voice hoarse but urgent. “I can give you the money. Right now. More than you’re being paid. Name an amount. But if you go through with this, you’ll have a kidnapping charge on your record. Is that what you want?

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Think of your family,” I add, looking directly at the one who’d called his child.

The other man, the colder one, Edwin, as his friend called him, scowls. “I told you, we don’t want your money! We have a job to do.”

It’s not greed, it’s pride. A warped sense of professional “integrity.” I have to break through it.

“I swear on my life, I will never speak of this. It stays between the three of us. I know you need the funds. Just tell n

number.”

I shift my gaze to the father, my eyes pleading. “I’m pregnant. I have an unborn child. Please. I don’t want to die. My baby

doesn’t deserve this.”

The word hits him with a jolt. The father’s eyes widen behind his mask. He takes an involuntary step back. People with children… they understand the fragility of life in a different

way.

“Edwin,” he says, his voice uneasy. “Maybe… maybe we should just let her go. We haven’t hurt her yet.”

Edwin whirls on him. “Are you insane? We took the job! She could be lying! You’re going to throw away our pay and ruin our reputation, just because some bitch says she’s pregnant?” 4/6

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“I’m not lying!” I cry out, trying to take advantage of the sliver of doubt.

“There’s a prenatal report in my bag. You can check it! Please. Just let me go.”

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