The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 412

Chapter 412

Gemma’s POV

The cool night air at the hotel entrance is a relief after the stuffy, perfumed heat of the ballroom. I’m perfectly sober, so I take the keys from a slightly tipsy Zina, sliding into the driver’s seat of her car. Wesley and Molly pile into the back, and Mikhail, after a final word with the event coordinator, heads for his own vehicle.

I’ve just pulled the door open when a force slams into me from the side.

Instinct is faster than thought. My arms fly around my stomach, cradling the precious, unseen life within, as I’m driven back a step against the cold metal of the car. A heart–stopping second later, I realize I’m not under attack. I’m being clung to. The scent of expensive cologne is buried under the sharp, sour tang of whiskey. Cassian.

flook up to see Liam jogging out after him, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated mortification. He meets my eyes, smacks his own forehead, and then, to my utter disbelief, pulls out his phone, aiming it at us. He’s recording this.

My friends in the car are silent spectators, offering no rescue. I let out a long–suffering sigh and plant my hands on Cassian’s shoulders, trying to lever the dead weight of him off me. “Cassian. How much did you drink? Can you stand up?”

He’s boneless, a tall, stubborn puddle of Armani–clad misery melted against me. I push, but it’s like trying to move a marble column. Frustration wins. I tilt my head back, wrinkling my nose. “Ugh. You smell like a distillery. It’s revolting. Get off.”

Like a switch has been flipped, the unresponsive man jolts. He actually wobbles back half a step, his expression one of dazed, genuine contrition. “I’m… I’m sorry.”

The collective stunned silence from the car and Liam is palpable. Cassian Blackwell, apologizing for being malodorous? The world has truly tilted off its axis.

Seeing the gap he’s created, I seize my chance and duck to slide into the driver’s seat. But before I can pull the door shut, his hand shoots out, wrapping around my wrist. It’s not a harsh grip, but it’s unyielding.

My patience, worn thin by the evening’s revelations and confrontations, finally snaps. “Cassian! What do you want?” My voice is sharp in the quiet night. It’s late. I’m tired. I just want to go home.

He blinks, his gaze struggling to focus on my face. “Gemma,” he slurs, the words thick. “Don’t go… don’t go to Florisdale.”

The plea, raw and unfiltered, hits me with unexpected force. I stare at him, my breath catching. Is this whole, pathetic display just to stop me from getting on a plane?

From the backseat, Zina gasps. “Gemma? You’re going to Florisdale?” Her voice is laced with shock and a hint of betrayal. Why didn’t I know?`

The secret is out, spilled by a drunken man. I give a tight nod, not looking away from Cassian’s hazy eyes. “Yes. I’m going with Mikhail.”

Zina’s hand flies to her mouth. I can practically hear her thoughts whirling: She’s leaving? With Mikhail? Is this it?

Liam steps forward, his earlier amusement gone, replaced by sober concern. “Gemma, are you serious? You’re really leaving?”

“Yes.” The word is flat, final.

He frowns, glancing from his drunken friend back to me. “If you go… what about him?” He jerks his chin toward Cassian.

The question ignites a spark of old anger. “What about him?” I counter, my voice cold. “I’m not his keeper. He won’t cease to exist if I board a flight.” I remember the icy distances, the silent dinners, the years of emotional solitude. Where was this desperate attachment then?

I try to pull my wrist free to get fully into the car, but Cassian uses my motion to clamber inelegantly into the passenger seat instead, his large frame folding awkwardly into the space. “Cassian, what are you doing?”

He leans his head back against the seat, eyes closed. “I’m -drunk. I feel terrible. Just… let me sit.”

The childish petulance, with Tom mere feet away, sends a flush of embarrassment up my neck. He has no shame, but I have plenty. I unscrew the cap and press the bottle into his hand. “Drink some water.”

A drunk Cassian is a bizarrely compliant creature. The few times I’ve witnessed this state, he’s always regressed to a strangely vulnerable, obstinate child.

The car slides to a stop in front of my building at Urban Lane. I get out, leaning down to thank Tom. “When you get back, have the maid make him some honey lemon water, please.” A hangover Cassian is a tyrant. I don’t want the staff at Oakhaven to bear the brunt of a misery he brought entirely upon himself.

Tom nods. “Of course, Ms. Marino.”

I turn to go, but the rear door opens again. Cassian stumbles out onto the pavement. “Gemma.” His voice is raw. “Don’t go with Mikhail.”

Again. We are on an endless, drunken loop. “Cassian, it’s the middle of the night. Go home.” Arguing geography with an intoxicated man is a special kind of futile.

He sways, then leans heavily on my shoulder, his height making it an awkward, collapsing hug. His question is a whisper against my hair, soaked in a pain that feels terrifyingly genuine. “Do you… like him?”

The question stuns me. My feelings for Mikhail are a complex knot of friendship, loyalty, and a promise to a dying man.

Romance isn’t part of the equation.

But he doesn’t wait for an answer. The plea comes again, stripped bare of all pride, all pretense, a broken record of a broken heart. “Gemma, please. Give me another chance. Don’t go to Florisdale.”