The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 414

Chapter 414

Gemma’s POV

“That was different!” The words snap out of me, sharp with a defensive heat I can’t control. “We were married then! Now, we have nothing to do with each other!”

He doesn’t flinch. If anything, a glimmer of his old, calculating self surfaces through the morning–after haze. “If you wanted, we could be married again.”

A trap. Woven with words, laid right in the middle of my living room. My temper flares. “I don’t want that!”

His expression darkens, the brief flicker of hope snuffed out by my swift rejection. The tense silence is shattered by the doorbell.

I yank the door open, grateful for the interruption. It’s Tom, holding a sleek garment bag. “Miss. Marino, these are a fresh pair of clothes for Mr. Blackwell’s”

I take the bag and thrust it at Cassian without a word. Tom hesitates for a moment. “Ms. Marino, Sir Blackwell is downstairs. He asked if you would join him.”

I blink. “Grandpa is here?”

I assumed it was just Tom in the car. Cassian, already shrugging into the fresh shirt from the bag, pods as he buttons his cuffs.

“Let’s go. He’s waiting.”

I hesitate. I said my goodbyes to Grandpa. I have no unresolved business with him. But then a thought occurs. I hold up a finger. “Wait a moment.”

I duck into my bedroom, open my jewelry box, and retrieve the small item tucked at the back. After slipping on my shoes, I rejoin him.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

In the back of the Rolls–Royce, Grandpa’s face, usually a map of stern lines, brightens the moment he sees me slide in beside Cassian. “Gemma! Thank you, my dear, for last night!”

I offer a small, polite smile. “It was no trouble.”

And it wasn’t. Letting a drunk man sleep on my couch required no great sacrifice.

“I’ve taken the liberty of reserving breakfast at Elite Garden,” Grandpa announces.

Elite Garden: the place where getting a dinner reservation requires political connections; a breakfast booking is no short of a miracle.

Seeing I don’t refuse, Grandpa glances at Cassian in the front passenger seat, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Shall we drop you at the office first? Mustn’t keep Blackwell Industries waiting.”

It’s a pointed taunt at Cassian’s workaholism.

Cassian’s lips press into a thin line. “There are no critical shipments today. I don’t need to be in early.”

Grandpa lets out a derisive snort. “So you can tell time outside of a board meeting. Wonders never cease.”

In the past, it was as if the company would bleed millions if he was a minute late. Home was merely a pit stop for him to sleep and change clothes in.

We’re barely seated at the pristine, white–clothed table, the scent of fresh coffee and baking pastries enveloping us, when Cassian’s phone vibrates with an insistent urgency. He answers, his voice low. “Liam.”

I watch his body language shift instantly. His spine straightens; his free hand curls into a loose fist on the tablecloth. “They’re all available today? …Right. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

He hangs up, and the conflict is written plainly across his face as he looks from Grandpa to me.

The words land with the weight of long–held grievance. Cassian actually recoils slightly. It’s true. Shared meals, leisurely time… these were currencies he never spent on us.

Grandpa looks from me to his grandson, his expression one of profound, weary resignation.

Cassian’s gaze locks with mine, searching for the old resentment, the silent plea to stay. He won’t find it. “You should go,” I repeat, softer now. “Don’t worry about us.”

When I said this during our marriage, it was born of helpless acceptance. I couldn’t make him stay, so I let him go, every time, with a quiet ache. Now, I say it with utter detachment. I am not letting him go; I am stating a fact. His presence is irrelevant.

The conflict finally resolves itself. With a last, complicated look at me, he pushes back his chair. “I’m sorry, Grandfather. I have to.”

Grandpa watches him disappear, then lets out a long, heavy sigh. He turns to me, his eyes old and sad. “Gemma, you have to understand… he’s just… slow. In matters of the heart, he’s always been a slow, stubborn student. Don’t hold it against him.”

I offer a small, indifferent smile, stirring a packet of sugar into my coffee. “It’s fine.”

And it is.

I’ve long since graduated from the school of Cassian Blackwell. Whether he remains a perpetual student is no longer my concern.

Seeing my genuine nonchalance, a deeper sorrow seems to settle in Grandpa’s bones. The dream of reconciliation, I realize, was more his than anyone’s.

“By the way,” I say, reaching into my purse. “I’m returning this to you.”

I place the glossy, red–gold bank card on the white tablecloth between us. My freelance work is more than enough to support Molly through college.

And with Florisdale on the horizon, I want no loose ends.

Grandpa stares at the card as if it’s a foreign object. “Gemma… what is this? What are you doing?”