The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 442

Chapter 442
Gemma's POV

I looked at Cassian, feeling stunned.

How did he know that Mr. Smith’s wife and kids were no longer around? 

I know that Mikhail's older brothers had passed away long ago, fighting bravely for their country. Due to their differences, his relationship was more like a strict tutor and a naughty kid, who needs constant supervision. 

But Mr. Smith has strictly asked me not to tell Mikhail about his surgery, and in his absence, Mr. Smith is, in effect, a solitary figure.

The doctor, caught between protocol and the ticking clock on a man’s life, seems to make a decision. He looks from Cassian’s unyielding face to the glowing red ‘SURGERY IN PROGRESS’ sign. With a curt nod, he pulls his mask up over his nose and disappears through the swinging doors. The gamble is taken. Mr. Smith’s fate is back in the hands of medicine, not bureaucracy.

A violent tremor runs through me, starting deep in my core and rattling my bones. Since Wendy… since my mother died in a place just like this, hospitals have been chambers of dread. The antiseptic smell, the hushed urgency, the waiting…. it all conspires to pull me under. Now, with another life balanced on a knife-edge, the dizziness returns, the walls seeming to pulse.

Cassian’s hand is on my arm, steadying, guiding me to a hard plastic chair in the deserted hallway. I sink into it, my legs liquid.

“How did you know the person inside is Mr. Smith?” The question is a whisper. Mr. Smith returned in secret. I was his only contact.

He sits beside me, his voice a low, calm counterpoint to the panic still humming in my veins. “I know everything that involves you.”

The statement should be alarming, a violation. Instead, in this sterile, fearful place, it feels like a strange, solid fact. It’s not a boast; it’s just… true. And in a twisted way, it’s almost amusing. Of course he does. He probably has a file.

“Get some sleep,” he suggests, his tone practical. “You have a flight to catch tomorrow.” He’s right. Mr. Smith’s surgery will be long, grueling. If I don’t rest now, I’ll be a wreck. His worry is palpable, layered with the unspoken knowledge of my pregnancy—the exhaustion that comes with it.

His shoulder is right there, broad and, in my current state, inexplicably inviting. A solid bulwark against the institutional chill and my own spinning thoughts. The tension of the day—the confrontation with William’s parents, the revelation of the double, the frantic race here—catches up all at once. A profound weariness wins. I don’t resist. I let my head tilt, my temple coming to rest against the fine wool of his suit jacket. The world narrows to the steady rise and fall of his breath and the distant, rhythmic beep of a monitor from another room.

Somewhere outside, cicadas drone, an anomalous, buzzing soundtrack for an autumn night. Gradually, the sounds blur, the hard light softens, and I slip into a shallow, uneasy sleep.

I’m jolted awake by chaos in the hallway. A gurney rattles past, followed by the raw, keening cry of a family member—a sound of pure, unvarnished grief that slices through the hospital’s silence. My eyes fly open.

I’m still leaning against Cassian. I lift my head, stiff and disoriented. He hasn’t moved. He’s held the same position, a human pillow, for who knows how long.

“How long was I asleep?” My voice is gravelly with sleep.

“Two hours,” he replies after a glance at his watch.

I look toward the operating room. The light is still on. The sky beyond the windows is pitch black, the hospital’s fluorescent glare making the night feel endless, oppressive. The crying from down the hall has subsided into choked sobs, a reminder of the stakes in every room here.

“Cassian,” I say, the question that’s been gnawing at me surfacing. “Should I tell Mikhail the truth?”

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