The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 422

Chapter 422
Gemma’s POV

Watching the wary, defensive flicker in Sandra’s eyes sends a cold, clear wave of satisfaction through me. I’m not a vengeful person by nature. My moral code is simple: live and let live. Don’t start trouble with me, and we won’t have any. But if you’re foolish enough to poke the hornet’s nest with a stick, you don’t get to complain when it rains down on your perfectly coiffed head. If she wants to peel back the scabs on my life, I’m more than happy to rip the gaudy, tattered curtain off the Collin family’s little stage.

“That particular massage parlor,” I say, my voice laced with false helpfulness, “isn’t just famous for its male therapists, you know. I’ve heard the female staff are also exceptionally… skilled.”

I know this by pure accident. 

Back when Claire was trying to set me up, Reyna, in a rare moment of useful spite, had exposed Claire’s fondness for that establishment. 

I had sent Zina to do some quiet reconnaissance. Zina, being Zina, didn’t just take notes. She became a one-woman paparazzi squad, capturing over a hundred photos from every conceivable angle. 

The images were so graphic, so compromising, that just having them in my gallery felt legally precarious. I had never intended to use them. 

Zoey was already dealt with; blackmailing Aaron Collin held no appeal. The file had sat in a secured folder on my phone, forgotten… until now. 

Sandra’s face undergoes a fascinating transformation, the pallor chased by a flush of furious blood. She glares at me, a cornered animal trying to project dominance. “Gemma, don’t try to bluff me. I’m not some naive girl you can intimidate.”

I can’t decide if she’s being cautious or willfully obtuse. “Mrs. Collin,” I ask, tilting my head, “have you ever wondered why? Zoey is the Collin family’s treasured only daughter. Yet after her arrest, Aaron never once approached me. Not a call, not a threat, not a lawyer’s letter. Nothing.”

The thought hangs in the air. Aaron Collin didn’t build his fortune by being a pushover. He’s a shark. The fact that he left me completely alone after I was the catalyst for his daughter’s imprisonment… it’s a glaring anomaly in the world of powerful, vengeful men. Sandra should be able to connect those dots.

She scoffs, the sound brittle. “You? You’re just a woman who clings to men for survival. First Cassian, now the head of Dream International. You’re always orbiting some powerful man. You’re nothing on your own.”

The projection is almost impressive in its audacity. “You could always ask Aaron yourself what he knows,” I reply, my gaze dripping with undisguised contempt. People who shout the loudest about others’ flaws are usually describing their own reflection.

I pull out my phone. My movements are deliberate, calm. I open the long-dormant album. With a few precise taps, I don’t need Sandra’s number. The Wi-Fi here is strong, and the digital walls between devices are like tissue paper to me. I select the most damning, yet strategically non-explicit, images and execute a simple broadcast command to every device on the network.

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