The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 418

Chapter 418

Reyna’s POV

I’m waiting by the phone, perched on the edge of my settee, the anticipation a sweet, fizzy feeling in my chest. Any moment now, it will ring.

Cassian will call me, telling me to come back. That Blackwell Industries needs me… that he needs me.

The phone buzzes. I snatch it up, a practiced, demure smile already on my lips.

But the voice that crackles through isn’t his. It’s Greer’s. And it’s laced with panic, not triumph.

“Reyna, it’s over. We’re calling it off.”

My smile freezes, then melts into something ugly. “What? You can’t. We had an agreement!”

The plan was flawless. Apply pressure on the weak points, the loyalties he feels to his old partners. Force his hand until he has no choice.

“We did warn you,” Greer snaps, his fear making him blunt. “He almost blacklisted us! If we hadn’t backed down, our companies Would be finished. He was ready to burn down his own busines to make the point!”

The words stab at me. I feel the air leave my lungs. Burn down his own business? For what? To keep me out?

“What did you do?” I spit, scrambling for reason. “You must have overplayed it! Asked for something extra! He wouldn’t just refuse me. Not after everything.”

There’s history there… obligation! He owes me a chance.

“We asked for nothing but what you stipulated,” Greer retorts, his voice tight with resentment. “He simply does not want back. That’s the beginning and end of it. Consider our arrangement terminated. Do not contact us again.”

The line goes dead with a final, damning click.

A white–hot fury erupts in my chest. A raw, guttural scream tears from my throat. I don’t think, just hurl the phone across the room with all my strength. It smashes against the ornate wall with a terribly satisfying crunch.

Why? The question is a searing brand in my mind. Why?! All I wanted was to go back. To reclaim my place at his side, in the empire I helped him rule.

It’s a reasonable request… a deserved one.

As I pace, my breath coming in sharp gasps, I see the disgusting, irritating face of Gemma in front of my eyes.

Of course.

It has to be her, it’s the only explanation.

She’s poisoned his mind against me… she has lent the whispers in his ear, turning my legitimate claim into something ugly and twisted.

If it weren’t for her, he would have decided logically.

The bitterness floods my mouth. I walk over to where my phone lies, the screen a spiderweb of cracks. I pick it up, checking if it still works.

It does, even though the broken glass bites into my thumb.

I don’t hesitate. I scroll through my contacts, my fingers trembling with a focused, icy rage. I find the number I’ve been holding in reserve, my final card to play.

I press call. It connects after two rings.

“It’s time. Activate the plan. Everything we discussed. The moment it’s done, the full amount will be in your account, just as we agreed.”

Gemma’s POV

Since my plans have solidified, the practicalities begin.

The studio space I’d been considering with Zina and Jace, a potential headquarters for our freelance collective, is now a redundant expense.

I arrange to meet Meredith for brunch to deliver the news.

“Ms. Bernard,” I begin, stirring my tea, “I truly appreciate you setting the space aside for us. But my circumstances have changed, I won’t be needing it anymore.

Meredith looks up from her salad, surprise etched on her elegant features. “Oh? Was there an issue with the location?”

“No, not at all,” I assure her with a shake of my head. “It’s me. I’m going abroad. I’ll be away for… a significant while. So, it’s best to put the studio idea on hold.”

The truth is, with me gone, the discipline of a shared office would crumble. Zina and Jace are brilliant, but their natural habitat is a home office with flexible hours.

***

Back at Urban Lane, the reality of leaving sets in. I drag my suitcases from the closet. Even with days to go, the task of condensing a life into a few bags feels like a Herculean task.

I start with the bookshelf, pulling out my favourites and the ones I’ll unfortunately have to leave behind. As I’m clearing a shelf, my hand brushes against something solid and flat, tucked far back against the wall behind a stack of encyclopaedia.

I bend down, my fingers closing around a worn, cloth–bound sketchbook.

I blow the dust off my old sketchbook, brought along with the books from Oakhaven.

Sitting on the edge of my bed, I open it. The first page is a rush of nostalgia, sharp and slightly painful. It’s filled with sketches of Cassian.

I had a fondness for watercolors back then, but these are pencil sketches; quick, sometimes clumsy, born of long, empty hours in that beautiful house.

I had little to do but observe the man who was my husband in name only, and imagine the rest.

Page after page reveals him: Cassian at his desk, brow furrowed, a pose I’d seen and memorized. Cassian on a beach, smiling at me, purely fictional, of course. They were exercises in longing, attempts to will a more intimate reality into existence using only graphite and guesswork.

Looking at them now, a sad smile touches my lips. How painfully naive I was… how desperately lonely.

I flip through to the last drawn page, a half–finished profile, and prepare to close the book, ready to toss it into the discard‘ pile. But as I go to shut it, I notice the back of the final sheet isn’t blank.

There’s writing, and it’s not mine.

I flatten the page against the bedspread. The handwriting is bold and familiar.

[Maybe I could bring the things in this sketchbook to life.]

The sentence is simple… like a secret whispered directly into my ears.

But a sharp jolt shoots up my arm like I have just touched a live wire. My heart hammers against my ribs. It feels like a piece of his inner self I was never meant to see… left hidden in the pages of my own youthful dreaming.

In a reflex of pure, startled shock, my fingers spring open. The sketchbook flies from my hands, hitting the wooden floor with a soft thud.