The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 398

Chapter 398

Gemma’s POV

By that afternoon, the digital storm has calmed down significantly.

The post is gone, the comments section locked down. Zina, Jeremy, and I are at a quiet corner table in a restaurant, the earlier tension replaced by a weary resolution.

I raise my glass of orange juice toward Jeremy. “Thanks for controlling the comments.”

He looks up, genuine confusion on his face. “What?”

Oh. So he only asked Amanda to delete the post, the comment lockdown wasn’t his doing.

A slow smile spreads across my face. I take a sip. “Oh, nothing.

Just thanks.”

Maybe Antonios, or someone else, had taken extra measures. I’ll take the win without digging into the how.

“Amanda went too far,” Jeremy says, his expression tightening with a mix of apology and frustration. “I’ve arranged for her to be transferred to a specialist hospital abroad soon.

I’m sorry forghe trouble she caused you.”

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I set my glass down, my principle a clear line between us. “Whoever messes up should apologize. You don’t need to apologize on her behalf, and I won’t accept it on her behalf.”

I won’t hold him responsible for his sister’s instability, but I also won’t grant Amanda absolution just because he asks for it. She’s an adult. When she’s lucid, she’s accountable.

The apology needs to come from her.

Jeremy studies me for a moment, then nods, a flicker of respect in his eyes. He doesn’t push the point.

As we leave the restaurant, my phone buzzes. The screen reads Mr. Smith. I offer a quick, apologetic glance to Zina and Jeremy. “I need to take this.” I step a few paces away, the city noise a buffer.

“Mr. Smith, hello.”

“Moonlight.” His voice is its usual calm baritone, but there’s an

undercurrent.

“I’ll be returning to the country tomorrow. Don’t tell Mikhail. I’ll arrive in the afternoon and leave by night. Next week, when Mikhail goes to Florisdale, I’ll need you to keep an eye on

things.”

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The pieces don’t fit. A cold prickle runs down my spine. Mikhail mentioned that Mr. Smith might return this week, but Mr. Smith himself told me he was too swamped to accompany Mikhail to Florisdale. Why a sudden, secretive trip? A schedule this rushed screams of a problem, not a social visit.

“Alright, Mr. Smith,” I say, keeping my voice even. “What time is your flight? I can pick you up at the airport.”

The time he gives me is in five hours, accounting for the time difference. The urgency confirms my dread.

.

“See you then.” I hang up, the phone feeling heavy in my hand.

I try to shake off the anxiety. Maybe, I’m overthinking, after all, it’s just a briefing.

But the logic doesn’t stick.

After saying a quick goodbye to Zina and Jeremy, I make a decision. I need to get my books.

It’s the perfect cover, a task to focus on instead of letting my thoughts linger. I pull out my phone and do something I haven’t done since the divorce papers were signed.

I text Cassian.

A short exchange later, I’m driving to Oakhaven Residence. I 3/8

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find his black Rolls–Royce already parked at the entrance, a silent announcement of his presence.

I park behind it, my pulse oddly loud in my ears.

I let myself in.

The foyer is quiet, but there he is, lounging on the large sectional sofa, dressed in casual clothes I rarely saw him in, idly flipping through the pages of a financial magazine.

The poster of leisurely indifference.

The thought is immediate. Wow! He does seem rather free nowadays.

Cassian’s POV

The quarterly projections are glowing on the conference room screen, mirrored from my tablet. I’m in the middle of explaining the logistics pivot when a notification slices across the top of the display, visible to everyone in the room.

[I’ll go back for the books later. When are you free?]

Gemma.

My words die in my throat. The entire boardroom watches the frozen graph, then watches me. I don’t care. I snatch my phone 4/8

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from the table.

My reply is instinctive, typed with one thumb. [In half an hour.]

From the corner of my eye, I see Liam shift. He knows. That’s the exact drive time from Blackwell Industries to Oakhaven

Residence.

He glares at me, as if trying to communicate only through his eyes. ‘But we’re in a meeting..!‘

Another message pops up. [If you’re busy, I can go by myself.]

It’s a notification, not an invitation. She would probably prefer I wasn’t there at all.

But the sting of that realisation feels oddly familiar. A moment later, my phone beeps with her response. I read it, then place the phone face down on the table with a decisive click.

“The meeting is adjourned. Liam, wrap up the highlights. Email me.”

My voice brooks no argument. I’m already out of my chair, grabbing my jacket from the back of it.

I’m out the door before the murmured acknowledgments finish, and I make it home with two minutes to spare. The 5/8

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engine cuts off just as I see her car turn onto the street.

Upstairs, I rip off my tie and suit jacket, swapping them for a grey sweater in record time. I need to look casual, unhurried and at leisure, like I just told her I would be.

I grab a random magazine from the den on my way down, positioning myself on the couch just as the key turns in the front door lock.

If she came closer, she might see the slight dampness at my temples and the fluttering pulse in my neck. But she doesn’t. She just changes her shoes, her gaze already fixed on the hallway leading to the study, and walks right past me.

The relief is immediate, followed by a heavier, duller weight. She didn’t even really look at me. I swipe a hand over my brow and follow her.

In the study, she is busy assessing the shelves. Her box is on the floor. She pulls the first few volumes easily, but the ones she wants are on the highest shelf, near the ceiling, placed there during a cleaning months ago.

“Let me help you,” I say, moving toward her.

“No need. I can manage.”

Her refusal is polite, automatic.

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A wall between us.

I don’t push. I just stand back and watch, my slight frown the only betrayal of my frustration.

She scans the room, her eyes searching the corners. “Do you not keep a step stool in here?” she asks, a note of confusion in her voice. There used to be one.

“I prefer working standing up,” I say. The lie is absurd, but it’s the first thing that comes to mind.

She raises an eyebrow, a silent question hanging between us. What’s wrong with you?

I grasp for justification, my mind flipping through the poetry of hers I’ve read. “It’s more efficient… as Hemingway said.” The reference is weak, desperate.

I sigh. This was the plan, wasn’t it? I put the books up high, providing a reason for her to need my help… a small bridge to cross the silence between us.

A stupid, hopeful plan.

Clearly, I overestimated the situation. She would rather strain on her toes than ask me for a hand.

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