The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 388

Chapter 388

Zina’s POV

Cassian slips out of her hospital room, closing the door with a near–silent click.

Jace and I are still there, perched on the uncomfortable waiting room chairs. We spring up the moment we see him. I’m already moving toward the door, I need to see her with my own eyes again.

“She’s asleep.”

His three words stop us in our tracks. We freeze, exchanging a glance.

The urgency drains away, leaving a dull, worried ache. Cassian turns his gaze fully on me.

“What did you mean earlier, about William?”

My blood runs cold. He heard?

Of course he heard me blubbering in there… I force my face into what I hope is a poker expression.

“Nothing,” I say, the word coming out too fast. I remember Gemma’s firm warning: Don’t let Cassian know.

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But Cassian is sharp. He sees right through the evasion, and his expression tightens. “You saw what happened today,” he says, his voice low but intense. “She nearly lost her life. If she tries something dangerous again, can you guarantee she won’t be in danger?”

His words are a hammer blow. I’m left speechless, my earlier resistance crumbling.

I’ve been against this from the start, afraid of Gemma facing that scheming William alone. After today, the very thought makes my skin crawl. Since Cassian already knows part of it… wouldn’t telling him everything mean there is one more person guarding her back?

The conflict must be written on my face. “Wait here,” I mutter.

I grab Jace’s sleeve and pull him down the sterile hospital corridor, out of earshot.

“Should I tell him?” I whisper, my voice frantic.

Jace’s brow furrows. “Gemma doesn’t want him to know.”

“I know that,” I hiss, frustration bubbling over. “But it’s too dangerous for her to handle William alone! We can’t always be there in time, can we? Look at what just happened! Wasn’t it him who saved her?”

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The image is burned into my mind: Cassian carrying her out of the inferno, his own safety an afterthought. I’ve held a

mountain of grievances against this man for the three years of quiet misery he gave Gemma.

But today? Today was different.

“Do you want Gemma to forgive him?” Jace asks, surprised.

“Of course not!” The denial is automatic, but my conviction wavers. “I just think having one more person to protect her isn’t a bad thing. And he’s the Don of the Blackwell clan! He has way more resources than we do, both legal and otherwise.”

I grasp for justification. “Besides, it’s not like I’m betraying her confidence. He overheard us.”

Jace is silent for a long moment. I know what he’s thinking.

They’re rivals, and giving Cassian this information is handing his opponent a tool, a chance to wedge his way back in.

But finally, Jace lets out a slow breath. “You’re right,” he concedes. “More protection for Gemma is good. Her safety is the most important thing to consider. Go ahead.”

We walk back, and Cassian hasn’t moved from where we left.

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I take a deep breath. “William approached her at the gala,” I begin, the story tumbling out in a rushed whisper. I tell him about the push into the pool, the creepy persistence, Gemma’s suspicion that he’s not acting alone, her plan to meet him and draw out whoever is behind him.

As I speak, Cassian’s face changes. The controlled mask slips, revealing sheer, stunned disbelief. He hadn’t known about this, he had no idea what she’d been navigating since their divorce.

When I finish, his expression settles into something hard and dark.

“I’ll investigate this,” he states, leaving no room for argument. “Please, both of you… convince her not to meet him alone.”

Jace and I share a helpless look. “If only she’d listen to us,” I sigh, the old frustration returning.

Cassian’s next words leave us both momentarily stunned. “Lock her in a room if she doesn’t.”

The old, domineering Cassian flashes through, but his reasoning quickly follows, softening the command into something else.

“I can accommodate her in everything else, but not this. This isn’t about her freedom. It’s about her safety. William is a man, and we don’t know who’s backing him. For her to face him

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alone is an unacceptable risk.”

He shakes his head, “I never realized Gemma was this brave.”

Or this reckless, I think, but I keep it to myself. For now, having him on guard duty might be exactly what she needs, whether she wants it or not.

Gemma’s POV

The persistent, dull throb in my leg is annoying. But I’m already dressed by eight o’clock, sliding my feet into my shoes, when the door opens.

Cassian steps in, a takeout bag in one hand. He stops, his eyes scanning me. “Where are you going?”

I don’t pause, reaching for my bag on the chair. “Dream International.” The answer is simple. The world didn’t end last night; work still exists. ́

He sets the bag down on the bedside table with a soft thud. “I took care of asking for leave from Mikhail for you. He understands.”

His tone is patient, firm. “Now lie back down and have your breakfast.”

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He opens the cardboard box. The scent hits me immediately- 5/8

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savory, rich, familiar. Meatloaf from the little deli three blocks

from my old apartment.

It used to be my favorite.

“I’m not hungry,” I say, my voice flat.

My stomach chooses that exact moment to issue a loud, traitorous growl. The sound hangs in the quiet room. Heat prickles at the back of my neck, but Cassian doesn’t smirk, doesn’t comment. He simply pours a glass of water from the pitcher and hands it to me, his expression unchanged.

“Even if you don’t eat,” he says, his gaze briefly dropping to my abdomen, “the baby needs to eat.”

The comment is so casual it steals my breath. I look at him, really look. How can he say that so calmly? To him, this pregnancy must be the ultimate proof of my supposed infidelity during our marriage. A living receipt of betrayal. Yet here he is, delivering breakfast because of it. I will never understand this man.

Still, I sit on the edge of the bed. The first few bites are okay, but the old, familiar nausea begins to coil in my stomach after only a few mouthfuls. I put the fork down.

He’s watching me from the chair he’s pulled close. “Eat a bit more. You barely ate anything yesterday.” There’s a quiet 6/8

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insistence there, underscored by the doctor’s verdict: weak, in shock, needs rest.

I shake my head, pushing the box away. “I can’t eat anymore.”

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