The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 424

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Chapter 424
Gemma’s POV

With Sandra’s retreat, the petty skirmish is over. I'm not enjoying my victory, just craving for some peace and quiet.

The pastry in my hand is now tasteless.

Cassian appears beside me, holding a fresh glass of orange juice which he wordlessly offers, and I take it.

“Where did you get the photo of Aaron?”

Of course, his phone would have been part of the digital blast too.

“Private collection,” I say, taking a sip. A sly, tired smile touches my lips. “Like them? I can send you the full archive tonight. Several gigabytes.”

It’s a bluff, but a satisfying one to float.

His face contorts in pure disgust, as if I’ve just suggested he lick the floor. The mental image of my phone brimming with Aaron Collin’s indiscretions clearly horrifies him.

“You actually… find that appealing?”

He asks, his voice strained. In his eyes, Aaron is barely a step above pond scum.

I shrug, feigning nonchalance as I pick at my pastry. “It’s a form of artistic study. Every… subject has its own unique aesthetic. Don’t you think?” I’m messing with him, and part of me enjoys watching him squirm.

He seems to take me seriously, his expression shifting to one of troubled contemplation. Finally, he says, with surprising gravity, “You should delete them. It’s not healthy to look at that. If you’re… interested in that sort of material, I could… record something for you.”

I nearly choke. The first part I agree with. The second is utterly, bafflingly insane. I look at him, deadpan. “If you’re considering a career change into adult entertainment, I might know some agents.”

He’d been tilting his head back in a pose of casual superiority. Now he sputters, juice threatening to go down the wrong pipe.

I give him a flat look. “On second thought, never mind. With your stamina, you’d probably be out of business in a day.”

The insult lands. He straightens, a flush of indignation coloring his neck. “Who says I lack stamina?”

“Oh, right,” I say, my tone dripping with false enthusiasm. “You’d be perfect for the job!” The sarcasm is thick enough to cut.

I see the moment he realizes I’ve been leading him on a ridiculous verbal chase. He looks like a man who has confidently stepped into a hole he didn’t see.

The dry pastry is finished. I wash the last of it down with the juice. My focus keeps snagging on the ugly, red-wine stain Sandra left on my skirt. I can’t ignore it any longer. With a sigh, I brush the lingering crumbs from my hands. It’s time to go.

I walk toward Mikhail, passing a still-shaken Sandra. In a moment of pure, petty impulse, I deliberately wipe my slightly greasy fingers on the sleeve of her pristine dress as I pass. A small, silent revenge for the stain on mine.

“Mikhail, I’m leaving,” I announce, interrupting his conversation with a gray-haired executive.

He turns, his business mask slipping into one of casual authority. “Who’s driving you?”

“I didn’t drink. I’ll drive myself.” The statement is simple. I’m an adult.

“Alright, wait for me at the curb. I’ll take you,” he says, already turning back to his discussion.

I’m momentarily speechless. He didn’t process a single word I said.

Shaking my head, I turn for the main exit. Cassian falls into step beside me, his presence suddenly there again. “You’re leaving?” he asks, and there’s a thread of something in his voice—frustration, maybe regret. Since learning about Florisdale, every interaction feels like a countdown to him.

I don’t answer. My attention is caught by new arrivals at the entrance. I move to sidestep them, assuming they’re no one I know. But as they draw level with us, the pair stops.

I look up.

It’s Reyna. And beside her, a man old enough to be her father, his arm possessively linked through hers. He’s well-dressed, with the polished, reptilian air of old money and low morals.