The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 403

Chapter 403

Gemma’s POV

All eyes are fixed on the grainy black–and–white footage. from the Bernard pool party for what feels like the hundredth time.

Molly, who had been hovering with a look of torn sympathy, goes rigid beside me. Her face, usually so open, tightens into a mask of pure, cold fury.

“Your deceit is on a whole other level.” She looks at William like he’s a specimen under glass, something fascinating and repulsive. “A person like you is genuinely terrifying.”

Zina steps forward, her own earlier flirtation with him now a source of visible disgust. “William,” she spits, “I actually thought you were a decent guy. For a minute there, I thought you were boyfriend material. Shows what I know, I guess.”

William flinches as if slapped, his confusion seeming to deepen under the twin assaults. “I’m telling you, it’s not megin that video!”

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Cassian has heard enough. He’s not interested in a courtroom drama in a movie theatre.

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“The evidence is right here,” he states,

1

voice a flat

line that cuts through the emotional c

1. er. “There’s

no more debate. You caused intentional harm. You’re

coming with us to give a formal statement.”

“I acknowledge that the person in that video looks exactly like me,” William insists, a desperate clarity coming into his eyes. “But it isn’t me. I was at my restaurant, testing a new beurre blanc sauce. The security hard drive doesn’t lie. We can go there right now and pull the original files.”

“Why would we go to your turf?” Zina shoots back, crossing her arms. “If you’re innocent, the police will figure it out. That’s their job.”

The logic is sound. I find myself nodding in silent agreement. Let the system untangle it. We move as a reluctant, grim–faced unit to the police station, William walking stiffly in the middle of our group.

At the station, an officer with tired eyes replays the clips from the Bernard residence and the restaurant,

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side–by–side on a larger screen. He rubs his stubbled chin, squinting. “Footage isn’t doctored,” he mutters, more to himself than to us. “Timestamps are concurrent.”

Cassian’s impatience is a physical tenon in his posture. “So what’s your conclusion?”

The officer leans back, sighing. “It means there’s a strong possibility we’re looking at two different individuals.”

Zina explodes. “That’s impossible! Are you seriously buying this? You see a guy shoving someone into a pool, and then you see a guy whisking eggs, and you just shrug and say ‘twinsies‘? Do your job!”

I share her skepticism. The restaurant footage could easily be fabricated, a pre–recorded loop or clever editing. “Let me examine the metadata,” I hear myself say.

“I can verify if the timestamps have been manipulated.”

No one objects. In this room, my expertise is the one undisputed fact.

The officer hands me a laptop. The next ten minutes pass by in deciphering code, frame rates, and embedded

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timestamps. My fingers fly over the keys, running checks I could do in my sleep. And the result… makes no sense.

I look up from the screen, my own d the expectant silence.

ief mirrored in

“The timestamps are clean,” I report, my voice hollow. “No evidence of tampering. The restaurant footage is genuine for its stated time.”

The officer clears his throat, trying to regain control of the unraveling situation. “Mr. Clark,” he says, turning to William. “Do you have a twin brother? Any close relative who could be your double?”

William’s brow furrows in deep thought. He looks like he’s scouring every corner of his memory. Finally, he shakes his head slowly, defeated. “No. I’m an only child. My mother… it’s just me. There’s no one who looks like that.”

With no clear path forward, the police officer does what he can. He files a report, labels it ‘inconclusive,‘ and tells us all, in so many words, to go home. “We’ll keep the file active. If anything new comes up, we’ll be in touch.”

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“So, that’s it?” Zina demands, her hands on her hips. “We still don’t know if William is the one who attacked

Gemma?”

No one has an answer. The foundation of our certainty

has crumbled.

William takes a tentative step toward me, and I instinctively take a half–step back, bumping lightly into Cassian.

William sees the movement, and his face falls. The message is received. Any potential for ‘us‘ was just incinerated in the crucible of this bizarre mess.

A profound sadness washes over his features. Then, he does something utterly unexpected.

“Ms. Marino,” he says, his voice low and earnest. “I am truly sorry for all this trouble. To prove my good faith… if it would make you feel safer, I am willing to wear a tracking device. That way, if someone who looks like me appears near you again, you’ll know for certain it isn’t me.”

The offer stuns the room into silence. It’s an extreme.

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invasion of privacy, the kind of thing usually reserved for parolees.

He’s volunteering for a digital leash?

I stare at him, my mind racing. For my safety, and for the baby’s safety…

Paranoia battles with pragmatism before I finally speak

up;

“Mr. Clark, I appreciate the offer. I’ll ensure the device is removed the moment this is resolved.”

It’s a cold agreement, like a transaction of trust.

Later, in Zina’s car, the mood is grim. Jace produces a small, nondescript black disc, a high–end GPS tracker. He hands it to William through the window. William takes it without a word, pockets it, and gives a final, somber nod before walking away into the evening.

“This is pointless,” Zina mutters, watching him go. “What’s to stop him from just leaving the tracker in a drawer at home if he decides to try something?”

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She’s right. I lean my head against the cool window. “I know,” I sigh, the exhaustion finally seeping into my bones. “But what’s the alternative?”

Short of having him followed 24/7, were out of options.

Unless…

“Actually…”

The small, hesitant voice comes from the backseat. Molly?

We all turn. She’s looking at her phone, her face pale but set with a strange determination.

“Actually,” she repeats, swallowing hard. “I… I’ve already installed a hidden tracking system on his phone.”

The confession lands like a pin–drop in the silent car.

She shrinks a little under the weight of our stares. “It’s completely undetectable. No icon, buried in the root code. He can’t find it or remove it unless I do it remotely from my server.”

She holds up her screen. A simple map glows there, with

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a single, steady red dot pulsing over a city street, moving away from us as William heads home. “He thinks the tracker is a physical device, and won’t be checking his phone.”

Zina’s mouth is literally hanging open. She blinks, processes this, and then her shock melts into a grin of pure, wicked admiration. She snatches the phone from Molly’s hands to see for herself.

Then her head whips back toward Molly, her eyes wide with a new, pressing question.

“Molly,” she says, her voice a mix of awe and utter confusion. “How in the world did you get your hands on his phone?”

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