The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 419

Chapter 419

Gemma’s POV

I know that handwriting like I know my own reflection; from three years of seeing it on legal documents, on notes left for the housekeeper, on the marriage certificate we signed.

It’s his, there is no doubt about it

But when did he do this?

It had to be before the divorce. During one of the countless nights I spent alone in that vast house, he must have found this book. He flipped through these pathetic pages, saw my lonely, imagined versions of him… the smiling beach–goer, the attentive reader… fantasies born from a crushing lack of the real thing.

And then he wrote that?!

Is he mocking me?

It feels like it.

A cold assessment of my childish dreams, followed by a hypothetical so distant it’s cruel. Or was it a test? To see just how big a fool his quiet wife could be, how large is the gap between her fantasy and his reality?

“Maybe I could,” I whisper aloud to the empty room. A short, sharp laugh escapes me, devoid of humor, laced with the old, familiar sting of humiliation. The sound hangs in the air, mixing with a confusing whirlwind of resentment and a hurt that feels freshly opened.

sit on the edge of the bed for a long time, the sketchbook lying accusingly on the floor. Finally, I stand, walk over, and pick it up. The cover feels charged. After a moment of internal debate, I don’t put it in the suitcase or the trash. I place it on my nightstand, a relic to be left behind. I won’t carry this tangible evidence of my past naivete across an ocean.

The packing resumes, more frantic now. By the time I’ve sorted through a third of my closet, a fine sheen of sweat coats my skin. I shower, trying to wash away the mental grime of the discovery.

I’m towel–drying my hair when my phone rings from an unknown number.

“Hello, Ms. Marino? This is regarding your Florisdale visa application. There seems to be an issue. It’s currently unable to be processed.”

“Unable to be processed? Why? I submitted everything. Financial proofs, itinerary, the works. What’s the problem?”

“There are various reasons for a visa rejection, all contingent on logisdale’s internal standards. You may wish to apply again aba later date.”

Later is not an option. Monday is my flight. Irritation sharpens my voice. “If a tourist visa isn’t viable, what about a work visa? I have a business invitation.” Surely Dream International’s clout can secure a business trip visa.

“You can certainly apply for a work visa. However, we cannot guarantee approval.”

Frustration boils over. I went to this agency to avoid hassle.

Now they’ve created one. “Where is your office? I’m coming over now.”

I hang up and immediately dial Mikhail. “Mikhail. There’s a problem with my visa.”

“What do you mean?” His confusion is clear. In his world, visas are formalities handled by assistants.

I give him the clipped version. I can practically hear him pinching the bridge of his nose on the other end of the line. “Gemma. Why on earth didn’t you let me or someone from Smith’s team handle this? It’s a simple procedure for us. Why involve a third–rate agency?”

A sigh deflates me. “I didn’t anticipate this level of incompetence.”

At the visa agency, the atmosphere shifts from impersonal phone call to obsequious concern. A young staffer ushers me to a plush chair, offering bottled water. “Ms. Marino, please, just a moment.”

The manager appears, my documents in a neat folder. He wears a mask of professional regret. “Ms. Marino, our deepest apologies for the inconvenience. It appears the requirements from the consulate are particularly stringent this cycle. But we are confident a re–application, with perhaps a stronger cover letter from our side…”

I cut him off, shaking my head. “No. I want my documents back. I’ll manage it myself.” Monday is a hard deadline. I don’t have time for their cycles of “maybe.”

He doesn’t look up from the pen he’s twirling. “She’s married.”

“So? People get divorced!” The words are out before I can think.

He finally looks at me, his gaze flat. After a beat of silence, he says, “Yeah. That sounds exactly like the kind of perspective you’d have.”

“Hey!” I protest, stung by the bluntness.

He ignores me, pulling open a drawer. He takes out the same heavy, heirloom emerald ring and pushes it across the desk toward me. “You don’t have a problem accompanying me to the charity gala tonight, do you? You are on the payroll.”

“Why not take Harold?” I ask, genuinely puzzled. His assistant is the logical plus–one for these corporate–social events.

“I’m not gay,” he states, utterly deadpan.

I blink, momentarily thrown. “Then why do I need to wear that again?” Wasn’t the whole ring charade specifically to make Linda react?

“Just wear it,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Is it not pretty enough? Not expensive enough for you?”

I roll my eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t stick. Since when is this about the jewelry’s market value or aesthetics?

Fortunately, having seen the ring earlier, I’d dressed with a bit more care tonight. My simple black dress is appropriate. Standing beside him at the grand hotel entrance, I murmur, “I don’t have anything to donate.”

Since the divorce, I haven’t acquired any new fine jewelry. The one diamond necklace I owned from that life was donated long ago; the rest remains, forgotten, at Oakhaven.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says smoothly, signing the guest ledger. “I’ll make a donation in your name.”

We write our names in the same column. As we turn to step into the glittering ballroom, a figure steps through the doors from theglobby outside.