The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 416

Chapter 416

Gemma’s POV

For a moment, both Sybille and I are rendered speechless, united in our stunned disbelief. Grandpa’s intention isn’t just obvious; it’s a battering ram wrapped in a birthday ribbon.

I manage a tight, non–committal smile, offering no reply. The timing is almost divine when my phone buzzes on the table, Mikhail’s name flashing on the screen. A lifeline. I answer.

“Gemma, do you have a visa for Florisdale?”

The question is a practical splash of cold water. He’s right. I don’t. My passport dates back to my marriage, and while I’ve used it, Florisdale was never a destination. “Is there still time to get one?” I ask, a thread of urgency in my voice.

“If you pay for expedited processing… it should be possible,” he replies, his tone pragmatic.

A sliver of relief eases the tension in my shoulders. “I’ll go apply this afternoon. It’ll be sorted before you leave.”

“You didn’t clock in at the office today,” he adds, a note of dry

observation in his voice.

A flush of mild embarrassment heats my cheeks. My attendance at Dream International has been… flexible at best. Anyone else would have been shown the door months ago. “I’ll handle it,” I murmur before ending the call.

As I set the phone down, I feel Grandpa’s intense gaze fixed on me. “Gemma,” he says, his voice suddenly grave. “You’re planning to go abroad?”

There’s no point in evasion now. “Yes, I have business there. I’ll need to be away for a while.”

“A while?” The word seems to alarm him. “How long is ‘a while‘?” A dreadful understanding is dawning on his face. This isn’t a vacation. This is an exit.

“I’m not sure yet,” I say honestly, meeting his worried eyes. “So, please, don’t make any birthday plans. I likely won’t even be in the country.” I hadn’t meant to tell him like this, but Mikhail’s call ripped the bandage off.

The anxiety on his face deepens into something like grief. “Gemma,” he asks, his voice rough, “are you leaving… because of Cassian?” I can see the thought forming: She’s so hurt she can’t even bear to stay on the same continent.

I shake my head, firm. “This has nothing to do with him. It’s strictly work.” It’s not entirely a lie. Seeing Mikhail through his surgery is a professional promise, a final duty.

Seeing the resolve in my expression, Grandpa deflates. All he can do is release a heavy, sorrowful sigh.

Across the table, I catch the exchange of glances between Sybille and Claire. Their poorly concealed delight is almost palpable. 2/6

With me gone, out of sight and out of the country, the path for Claire to weasel her way into Cassian’s world–and Blackwell Industries–clears considerably. My departure is their windfall.

“Grandpa,” I say, pushing back my chair. “I have some things to attend to. I should get going.” Breakfast is effectively over.

He looks at me, understanding that I’m off to secure the very means of my departure. He wants to protest, to forbid it, but he knows he has no right.

Author’s POV

The moment Gemma is out of sight, Grandpa’s appetite vanishes. He drops his napkin, wipes his mouth with a brusque motion, and stands without a word to Sybille or Claire, his departure as swift and final as a verdict.

Left alone at the ravaged breakfast table, Claire turns to her mother, her eyes alight with possibility. “If she really leaves the country… do you think Cassian would follow her?” She’s already picturing it: Cassian chasing his ex–wife overseas, the helm of Blackwell Industries suddenly, gloriously vacant, and herself stepping smoothly into the power vacuum. She’s certain Grandpa would never hand it to Ben.

The two women immediately fall into easy, gossip–laden chatter, their voices a murmur of social maintenance.

His mind, like mine, goes to the true legend in the shadows: Moonlight.

Gemma.

The comparison is laughable, and infuriating.

“Just wait until they get here,” I say, my voice flat. I need to focus. I take a seat at the outdoor table, pour a cup from the insulated carafe the staff left. I take a sip and immediately spit the lukewarm, bitter swill back into the cup. It’s disgusting. A perfect start.

The clients arrive a full thirty minutes late. They settle into the chairs opposite us without a word of apology, their expressions blandly expectant.

One of them, a man named Greer, speaks first. “Mr. Blackwell. I assume you’ve called this meeting to finally agree to have Ms. Holloway oversee our account moving forward?”

Liam stiffens beside me, a low growl forming in his throat. I place a restraining hand on his forearm before he can erupt. lean forward, my elbows on the table, my gaze steady on Greer. “I have a question. Is this contract with Blackwell Industries, or is it a personal contract with Reyna Holloway?”

The question catches them off guard. They exchange a quick glance. “Well, with the company, of course,” Greer says, recovering.

“Then I’m confused,” I continue, my tone deceptively calm. “If it’s the company’s capability you trust, why is one individual employee–who is currently on leave–so non–negotiable? Do you suddenly doubt our institutional strength?”

Liam can’t help himself. He lets out a short, derisive snort. “We’ve partnered for years. This sudden threat of mass termination, without a single substantive complaint about our work? It feels personal. It feels coerced.”

The clients shift in their seats. Greer clears his throat. “We’ve explained. We’re comfortable with Ms. Holloway. We have a rhythm. It’s not about Blackwell Industries, Mr. Blackwell, please don’t take it that way.”

But it is… they’re holding my company hostage for a person, and the reason behind it stinks of a setup far deeper than professional preference.