The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 384

Chapter 384

Gemma’s POV

I look up, my eyes straining in the dim light, and the air leaves my lungs in a silent, disbelieving rush. It’s not some mysterious, powerful enemy. It’s not William.

It’s Kitty and Lydia.

.sin

The sheer, staggering pettiness of it roots me to the spr ́ ́ had been a expecting a mastermind, and I got my vindictiv and her unhinged mother.

“Alright, you two are done here. Get lost,” Lydia snaps, waving a dismissive hand at the two masked men. They don’t need to be told twice; they slip out the door, leaving me alone with my so–called family.

The silence in the shack is thick and heavy. Kitty wastes no time. She strides forward, her face contorted with fury, and her open palm cracks against my cheek with a force that snaps my head to the side. White–hot pain blooms across my skin.

“This is for ruining me at Blackwell Industries!” she spits, her voice trembling with rage. “You think you can just destroy my life and walk away? Now that you’re here, Gemma, I’m going to make you regret you were ever born!”

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< Chapter 384

So this is it. The subpoena. The lawsuit. The money they owe. They couldn’t win legally or financially, so they resorted to this. The pathetic, desperate logic of it is almost worse than the slap.

The rag muffles my cry, turning it into a pained grunt. I can only glare at them.

“If you had just dropped the lawsuit when we asked, we wouldn’t have had to go to these lengths!” Lydia chides, as if I’m a disobedient child. She pats Kitty’s shoulder. “Enough. Make the call.”

Kitty pulls out a phone, her eyes gleaming with a frant triumph. She shoves it toward me. “Call Cassian. Now.”

I stare at her, then deliberately look down at my still–bound hands. How, exactly?

Lydia rolls her eyes, reaches into her oversized bag, and produces a small, sharp utility knife. She saws roughly at the ropes. The fibers part, and fire erupts in my wrists as blood rushes back into my bruised, numb hands. “Don’t try anything clever,” she warns, her voice low and dangerous. “No one knows you’re here. No one is coming for you.”

I flex my fingers, wincing at the pins and needles, then rub my raw wrists. My mind is racing, but my body moves slowly, buying fractions of a second. I take the phone.

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*

Lucky Draw

< Chapter 384

A number flashes into my mind, clear and complete, as if it had been waiting. I haven’t dialed it in months. I told myself I’d forgotten it. But in this moment of pure terror, it’s the only number I know. My fingers move automatically, inputting the digits.

Before I can bring the phone to my ear, Kitty snatches it back. She taps an app, and her voice, when she speaks, is distorted by a robotic filter. She hits the call button.

Cassian’s voice spills from the speakers.

“Who is this?”

The altered, metallic voice responds.

“Gemma is with us. If you want to see her alive again, bring fifty million dollars in cash to the seafood market. You have thirty minutes. Money for the girl. Be late by one second, and you can start planning her funeral.”

Cassian’s POV

The voice on the other end of the line is a distorted, metallic rasp, but the threat it carries is crystal clear. A cold, dangerous fury settles in my bones. This is a first. No one has ever been

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this stupid.

“Do you have any idea what fifty million in cash weighs?” My voice is calm, almost conversational, a stark contrast to the storm inside. “Even if I bring it, you couldn’t possibly move it.”

There’s a stunned silence on the other end. Rustling, a muffled curse. They didn’t expect a negotiation. “That’s not your problem!” the voice snarls, regaining its bravado. “Just get the money here. Thirty minutes. You’re late, she’s dead.”

The line goes dead. I immediately redial. Busy signal. T‘ cut the line.

‘ve

Adam, pale beside me, breaks the tense silence. “Mr. Blackwell, we should contact the authorities. This is a major felony.”

My hands tighten on the wheel. “Get the money.”

The sum is insignificant. Her safety is not.

Adam blinks, confused. “But sir, you just said—”

“We’re not carrying it in suitcases,” I cut him off, my mind already calculating. “Convert what won’t fit into gold bullion.“”

We divert to the nearest flagship bank. Adam handles the communication. The manager is visibly shocked by the unprecedented, urgent request, but the name ‘Blackwell‘ cuts

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<Chapter 384

through all protocol. Teams are mobilized. Bricks of cash are counted with frantic speed. The excess is converted into dense, heavy gold bars.

The trunk of the car, once empty, is now a vault on wheels, packed with more tangible wealth than these idiots could ever comprehend.

I pull back onto the road, the engine a low growl as I push the car toward the waterfront district. The clock is ticking in my

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