The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 434

Chapter 434
Gemma's POV

The second I step out of the treatment room, Cassian is there. 

“Do you want to get checked out?” 

He asks, his eyes scanning me with an intensity that feels interrogative more than concerned. “I saw that fixture fall just inches from you.”

I can see the worry etched into the lines around his eyes. He’d been waiting out here like a caged animal, while Mikhail and I were inside. Holding himself back, not wanting to crowd me, to seem too much. The effort is almost touching. Almost.

I look at him and shake my head, the motion feeling stiff. “I’m fine.”

“I’ll take you home.”

The offer is simple, but it carries the weight of the failed evening. 

Before I can formulate a reply, another voice, older and laced with genuine concern, rings out. “Gemma, are you alright?”

I turn, surprised. Grandpa Blackwell is making his way down the corridor, leaning on his cane, his presence commanding the space. Behind him, like a reluctant retinue, are Sybille, Claire, and Natalie, their expressions ranging from concern to thinly veiled irritation.

“Grandpa? Why are you here?”

“Wasn’t there supposed to be a fireworks display tonight?” he says, reaching for me. His sharp eyes take me in, assessing for damage. “I thought I’d come and join the fun. Then I saw the news clip about the collapse. I saw it was you in the footage, so I rushed over.”

Sybille and the others shift behind him. Their body language screams complaint. They’d been dragged from their homes because Grandpa, upon seeing my face flash on a news alert, had issued a royal command. The thought is staggering.

“I’m fine,” I repeat, the phrase starting to sound meaningless. “My friend shielded me. I wasn’t hurt.”

Grandpa’s gaze shifts to Mikhail, who stands a little apart, his shoulder freshly and competently bandaged. The old man gives a solemn, respectful nod. “Thank you.”

Mikhail just presses his lips together, giving a short nod back. “It was nothing.”

Then Grandpa turns. The atmosphere chills by ten degrees. His disappointment is a palpable force as he looks at his grandson. “What on earth were you thinking?”

Cassian’s head dips, a picture of chastised acceptance. He doesn’t defend himself. He just takes it.

I can feel Grandpa’s silent fury.

“The fireworks weren’t the problem, but then there was a disaster too!”

“Grandfather, it was an accident,” Cassian says, his voice low.

“An accident?” Grandpa’s cane taps sharply on the linoleum. “And what isn’t an accident? Was the crowd an accident too?”

Next to me, Zina gives a tiny, guilty tremble. I squeeze her hand. The crowd was my fault, her wide eyes seem to say. She never thought her tweet would blow up like that. 

But my own mind is snagging on Grandpa’s words. The phrasing, he chose to say ‘fireworks display’, not ‘the festival.’ The display. And why is he holding Cassian alone responsible for the accident, if his role was just limited to providing the tickets? 

My eyes flick to Cassian, seeking confirmation, a denial, anything. He avoids my gaze, looking steadfastly at the floor.

That avoidance is all the answer I need.

A cold, complicated wave washes over me. So it was him, not the tourism board and definitely not a secret event. Him. 

A hundred thousand shots for an evening he didn’t even need to take credit for. The realization is staggering, infuriating, and undercut by a treacherous, unwanted thread of… something else.

“Dad,” Sybille interjects, her voice strained with the effort of patience. “Since everyone’s alright, we should head back. It’s getting late.” 

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify