The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 428

Chapter 428
Reyna's POV

The sting of Cassian’s words, the threat of security, still hangs in the air like cheap perfume. But now, the tears are gone. Wiped away, along with the pretense. I let my gaze settle on him, my face a smooth, unreadable mask. The power has shifted. I feel it humming in my veins.

“You should know who I was with at the charity gala yesterday,” I say, my voice calm, conversational. “The chairman of Kranton Bank.”

Cassian’s eyes narrow. He sees the chessboard now. “Reyna,” he says, the name a low warning. “What exactly are you playing at?”

His question is so perfectly predictable, so utterly blind to the game already in motion, that a laugh escapes me. It’s not a giggle; it’s a short, sharp burst of genuine amusement. “Playing?” I echo, tilting my head. “What else would I be doing? I’m simply looking to strike a deal with you.” I let the silence stretch for a beat, letting the implication sink in. “If I remember correctly, Kranton Bank has been your partner for a while now. If the bank were to… reconsider its position, don’t you think Blackwell Industries’ cash flow might encounter some friction?”

Liam… poor, gossipy, useless Liam, gasps. He’s finally connecting the dots. “Reyna, what’s your endgame here?” he sputters, his face flushing. “Are you so bent on making us suffer? What’s your problem?”

I turn my scathing look on him. What an insect! “And what makes you think you can talk to me like that?” My voice drips with contempt. “If it weren’t for Cassian, would the Cooper family even be breathing right now?” I lean forward slightly, aiming the dagger precisely. “If Blackwell Industries falters, the Cooper family will be the first to sink. A widow running a company? The vultures have been circling for years.”

I see the blow land. His father’s death, his mother’s struggle—it’s his sacred wound, and I’ve just salted it. His temper, always so close to the surface, ignites. “Reyna, cut the act!” he snarls. “Just because you’re clinging to some old man, don’t think you can throw your weight around here.”

The mask is off. There’s no need for the demure facade, not with these two. A light, knowing smile touches my lips. “Sure, I’m with an old man,” I agree, my tone almost breezy. “But don’t forget, he’s seventy-eight. He might drop dead any day now.”

The calculation is cold and clear in my mind. Abel Carrington. Widowed for decades. His only heir, a son in his forties, is currently listening to a brain tumor’s countdown. The timing is… fortuitous. A little warmth, a few well-rehearsed smiles, the promise of companionship in his final years—it’s a small price. When the dust settles, Kranton Bank, that river of money currently feeding Cassian’s empire, could be mine. The ultimate revenge, funded by his own lifeline.

“Reyna, do you really think Adam doesn’t know what you’re scheming?” Cassian’s voice cuts through my planning, cold as a surgeon’s blade.

I shrug, the picture of pragmatic indifference. “Even if he does, what of it? He’s old. If I can offer him some comfort in his twilight years, and he provides the capital I require, it’s a mutually beneficial arrangement. What’s the problem?”

Adam hasn’t touched a woman in years, I think, the plan solidifying. At his age, the appetite is gone. I just have to be a pleasant portrait on the wall. A little patience, and all that wealth transfers to a name he’ll never live to see me spend.

Emboldened, I stand. My heels click on the polished floor as I walk to the front of his monstrous desk. I brace my hands on the cold surface and lean in, closing the distance between us, forcing him to see the resolve in my eyes.

“Mr. Blackwell,” I say, the title a deliberate barb. “If you truly care about the bigger picture, you’ll avoid crossing me at this juncture.”

The irony is delicious. I’m almost grateful for his stubbornness, for banishing me from his company. If he hadn’t, I might never have been so distracted, so furious, that I stumbled into the path of that town car. Abel’s town car. Fate, it seems, favors the prepared. And the furious.

I am gloating inside, watching the cold fury harden his features, knowing I have him cornered. He needs Kranton. I am, for now, Kranton’s whim.

The blow comes without warning. His hand connects with my cheek in a crack that echoes in the silent office. The pain is sharp, immediate, a white-hot brand on my skin. My head snaps to the side.

“You’re out of your mind!” he snarls.

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