The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 410

Chapter 410

Mikhail’s POV

The gala’s energy hums around me, a steady, prosperous drone. Robby Butler, one of our newer, shinier assets, has just finished pouring a nervous complaint into my ear. Now, I relay the issue to the one person I know can solve it.

“Robby says he’s got a problem with an obsessive fan,” I explain to Gemma, keeping my voice low. “He’s convinced someone’s planted surveillance in his home. He wants you to sweep the place. Find the devices, trace them back if you can.”

She doesn’t even look at Robby, who’s hovering a few feet away, trying to appear casually interested in a potted fern. Her eyebrow arches, in a perfect, skeptical curve. “So?”

Her flat tone throws me. This is usually her kind of puzzle: clean, technical, with a clear villain. “So,” I continue, a bit thrown, “he needs help. And you’re the best.”

“Sorry,” she says, the word final and cool as polished stone. “Not interested.”

I’m genuinely taken aback. The refusal is so absolute, so unlike her professional demeanor. There’s a personal edge to it I don’t understand.

Robby, catching the drift, steps forward, his movie-star smile switched to ‘contrite and charming.’ He hadn’t made the connection earlier, too wrapped up in his own paranoia and pride to see the striking woman he’d brushed off as the legendary expert I’d promised.

“Ms. Marino,” he begins, oozing sincerity, “my apologies for before. I’ve heard incredible things about your skills. If you could assist me, I’d be immensely grateful. Name your fee. We can work something out.”

Gemma’s gaze doesn’t waver from mine. She acts as if Robby hasn’t spoken. “This isn’t a project, Mikhail. It’s a trivial errand. Do you really think this is what I do?”

Ah. There it is. The offense is personal. If he hadn’t insulted her earlier, she might have considered it as a favor to me. The irony is almost poetic.

I get it. But business is business. Robby is a significant investment for Dream Entertainment. His talent is real, his box-office potential is high, and a stalker with cameras is a career-ending scandal waiting to happen. As the man currently responsible for the company’s stability, I can’t ignore it. And she is, objectively, the best.

I lean in slightly, lowering my voice to a pragmatic murmur. I make a discreet gesture with my fingers, indicating a number I know is generous, even for her.

She doesn’t even consider it. She shakes her head, single, definitive motion. “Not even for ten times that.”

I know she’s right about one thing: the Security Department has competent people. A basic bug sweep is within their capabilities. But tracing it? Finding the source with the kind of elegant, untraceable precision she’s known for? That’s her specialty. And I want this handled, not just patched.

Robby, realizing his apology missed the mark, tries again, his expression shifting to one of wounded sincerity. “Ms. Marino, I am truly, deeply sorry about our earlier misunderstanding. I had no idea you were with Mr. Voloshin. Please, forgive my rudeness.”

Watching her face, I see his second attempt backfire spectacularly. A flicker of cold disgust passes through her eyes. “You still don’t understand,” she says, her voice dangerously quiet.

“The point isn’t that you should apologize because I ‘am with’ Mikhail. You should apologize because you were an arrogant, disrespectful ass to a stranger. But honestly,” she continues, finally turning her glacial gaze fully on him, “it doesn’t matter. After tonight, our paths won’t cross again. So by all means, carry on being exactly who you are. It’s of no consequence to me.”

With that, she turns on her heel and walks away, melting into the crowd, leaving a vacuum of stunned silence in her wake.

“Mr. Smith mentioned he’d be swamped this week,” she says, her voice too even, her eyes fixed on a point over my shoulder. “He said if you needed anything, you should come to me directly.”

I watch her, this performance of normalcy. It’s so unlike her usual, unflinching directness that it’s almost painful to witness. A low chuckle escapes me, born of fondness and a sharp, sudden worry. “You’re a terrible liar, you know that?”

I remember our first meeting vividly. She stood her ground with a fearlessness that bordered on recklessness, even with a potential threat in the room. This stilted, evasive version of her is wrong.

She can’t hold my gaze. She looks down, fidgeting with the stem of her glass, clearly scrambling. “When… when is your flight to Florisdale?”

She asks, clumsily and abruptly changing the subject. I wonder what is bothering her so much… and I wonder if she’ll ever tell me.

I pull out my phone, checking the calendar. “Next Monday.”

I see her do the mental math. Today is Wednesday. A subtle, almost imperceptible relief relaxes her shoulders for a split second. “I’ll go with you,” she says quickly, the words rushing out.

Now it’s my turn to be surprised. “You’re coming to Florisdale? With me?” The offer is unexpected. A pleasant surprise, but unexpected.

Before she can formulate an answer, a large hand closes around her upper arm, pulling her a step away from me. The grip is possessive, firm. I look up into the stormy, confused face of Cassian Blackwell.

“You’re going to Florisdale?”