The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 432

Chapter 432
Gemma's POV

The world narrows to a pinpoint of fizzling light at the end of my sparkler. Then, a voice… raw, stripped of all control, slices through the booming finale of the fireworks and the chatter of the crowd.

“Gemma!”

It’s Cassian. The sound is a gut-punch of panic. My head snaps up on instinct, a primal warning screaming along my nerves. I feel it before I see it, a shadow descending on me. 

I see him first. Cassian, moving with a speed I’ve never seen, his face a mask of pure terror, eating up the distance between us like the ground is falling away behind him. Zina’s scream blends with Jace’s shout. They’re all surging toward me, a blur of horrified motion.

But I am frozen, confusion locking my joints. What—?

Then, a deafening crunch of metal and shattering glass erupts right above my head. I flinch, my eyes squeezing shut for a split second. When I force them open, the world has reordered itself.

Mikhail is beside me. Not running toward me, but already there. His arms are raised, muscles corded with strain, holding aloft the mangled skeleton of a spotlight rig. It casts a jagged, monstrous shadow over both of us. His face is grim, teeth gritted.

“Get out of here, now!” he barks, the command short and guttural.

The fireworks have chosen this exact second to stop. The sudden silence is profound, broken only by the distant screams of tourists and the sickening, groaning creak of the metal in Mikhail’s grip.

“Mikhail!” My voice is a gasp.

I scramble backward, my shoes slipping on the grass. The moment I’m clear, he gives a mighty heave, shrugging the wreckage off his shoulders with a pained grunt. It hits the ground with a final, resonant thud.

Then they are all around me. A wall of concerned faces. Cassian reaches me first. His hands are on my arms, his grip almost painfully tight as he pulls me to him, away from the debris. His eyes are wild, scanning my face, my body. “Are you hurt?” The question is ragged, stripped bare. The usual cold composure is gone, incinerated by fear. I see genuine, unvarnished terror there, and it stuns me more than the falling metal.

I meet his gaze, and for a second, I’m trapped in that sincerity. Then, self-consciousness floods in. I wriggle awkwardly out of his hold. “I’m fine.”

My attention whips back to Mikhail. He’s standing a few feet away, brushing off his hands. Then I see it—a dark, spreading stain blooming like a cruel flower on the shoulder of his white shirt. Blood.

The rig wasn’t huge, but its fall from height was merciless.

“I’m taking you to the hospital!” The declaration leaves my mouth before I can think. It’s not a question.

---

The hospital is a jarring transition from the dreamlike plaza to harsh fluorescent lights and the smell of antiseptic. Mikhail’s wound, now clearly visible, is a nasty, deep gash—not from the bulk of the rig, but from a sheared-off screw that acted like a blade.

My eyes are glued to the nurse’s quick, efficient hands as she cleans it. “Does he need stitches?” I ask, my voice tight.

The nurse, harried and glancing constantly at the chaotic hallway—apparently there was a multi-car accident—shakes her head. “Not yet. Just rest, keep it clean and dry.” She finishes the preliminary cleaning, then, in a move of clear triage, thrusts a roll of gauze into my hands. “You just need to wrap it up to staunch the bleeding. If you need anything, call me.” And she’s gone, swept into the tide of more critical emergencies.

I stare at the white roll in my palms, feeling utterly out of my depth. Reluctantly, I step closer to Mikhail, who’s perched on the edge of a treatment bed. He’s watching me with an expression that’s part pain, part amusement.

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