The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 415

Chapter 415

Gemma’s POV

“Grandpa,” I say, my voice carefully measured, “you told me this card was a wedding gift. But my family brought little to the marriage, and you… you settled a six hundred million dollar debt for us. Now that Cassian and I are divorced, it’s not right for me to keep it.”

If it were just the original amount, a symbolic gift, maybe I could rationalize it. But I’ve checked the balance, and it has grown substantially.

It feels like an open account, a debt I’m still accruing.

Sybille has already demanded it back once. I don’t want that drama following me across an ocean.

I’ve made my peace with the six hundred million. In my mind, it was the settlement. The price paid for three years of my silence, my patience, my slow erosion in that gilded cage. If the Blackwells feel it wasn’t enough, I’ll pay it back. Slowly, from across the world, until the ledger is finally, truly balanced and no one owes anyone anything.

Grandpa pushes the card back across the crisp linen toward me, his expression obstinate. “Gemma, I gave that to you. A gift isn’t meant to be returned. There’s not much on 09:39 anyway.”

His eyes soften with a genuine regret. “These past years… they were hard on you. This pittance can’t begin to compensate for that. You keep it. And don’t you worry about idle tongues. If anyone dares say a word, I’ll have it out with them!”

When Grandpa gets fierce, there’s a raw, old–world power to it that brooks no argument.

“Grandpa,” I insist gently, “you really don’t need to keep putting money on it.”

Understanding dawns on his face. “Ah. That.” He shakes his head, a wry, helpless gesture. “Gemma, you’ll have to take that up with Cassian. That’s his doing. I have no say. The boy has more money than sense, and he seems to think funneling it into that card is a suitable hobby. I can’t very well stop him.”

So it is Cassian. The confirmation sends a weird, hollow pang through me. Of course. A thousand–dollar transfer here, a mysterious deposit there, and now this. Even after the door is closed, he’s still trying to slip notes under it. He truly has more wealth than he knows how to meaningfully spend.

I’m at a loss. What do you say to that?

Before I can formulate any kind of response, the door to our private dining room swings open. Two figures walk in, bringing with them a wave of chilled air and a tension that immediately thickens the atmosphere.

Sybille, and following her is her daughter from hell, Claire.

“Father,” Sybille says, her voice a polished blend of surprise and false warmth. “Claire and I were just having breakfast and heard you were here. We thought we’d pop in to say hello. I hope we’re not intruding.”

Grandpa doesn’t bother with niceties. He lets out a derisive snort. “You already are.”

Sybille’s smile falters, but she soldiers on, guiding a wide–eyed Claire to two empty chairs. Her gaze lands on me, and the surprise looks only half–feigned. “Oh, Gemma. You’re here too. I didn’t notice. Where’s Cassian? You came alone?”

I open my mouth, but Grandpa cuts in, his tone a dismissal. “You’re here to eat? Then eat. Talk less.”

But Claire, with the sharp, acquisitive eyes of the perpetually entitled, has already zeroed in on the red–gold card still resting near my hand on the table. “Mom,” she says, her voice a stage whisper. “That card… isn’t that one of those exclusive, unlimited ones?”

Grandpa, having dispatched the nuisance, turns his attention back to me, his expression shifting to one of grandfatherly concern. “Gemma, your birthday is coming up soon, isn’t it? I still remember.”

The mention catches me off guard. This chaotic year has blurred the calendar. If he hadn’t said it, I might have let the day pass unnoticed. For the past three years, Cassian’s acknowledgment was a perfunctory piece of jewelry, ordered by an assistant, handed over with all the warmth of a business transaction. With my mother gone, the day feels like just another square on the calendar, empty of significance.

“You should celebrate properly this year,” Grandpa insists, his eyes brightening with sudden purpose. “Tell me what you’d like! Anything! I’ll see it’s done.”

I shake my head, a genuine, soft smile touching my lips at his earnestness. “Please, don’t trouble yourself. Birthdays come every year. I haven’t made a fuss over mine in a long time.”

A shadow of deep sadness crosses his face. “Then that’s exactly why we should this year!” he declares, his voice gaining

volume, rallying. “We’ll do it properly! Make it grand!”

I almost laugh at his determination, touched and exasperated. I’m about to gently explain that I’ll be thousands of miles away in Florisdale by then, that his plans are sweet but moot.

But he leans forward, his eyes twinkling with a sudden, mischievous, and utterly disastrous idea. “A birthday is a joyful occasion! But you know what’s even better? Double the joy!” He beams, as if presenting the solution to all our problems.

“How about this: on your birthday, you and Cassian go down and get your marriage certificate reinstated! Now that would be a celebration! Twice the happiness!”