The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 445

Chapter 445
Gemma's POV

The wheels of the plane kiss the tarmac with a familiar shudder, the engines roaring in reverse. Local time: ten in the morning. Florisdale’s sunlight, harsh and golden, streams through the oval windows. 

Next to me, Zina unfolds herself from her seat with a luxurious, cat-like stretch, well-rested and buzzing with energy.

“Gemma,” she chirps, slinging her bag over her shoulder as we shuffle into the aisle. “Where are you guys headed now?”

I glance over my shoulder. Mikhail is taking his sweet time, ambling up from the back of the plane with that infuriatingly casual saunter. 

“Taking him to the hospital,” I say, my voice flat.

Zina pulls a face, a mix of sympathy and relief that her mission is more scandalous than medical. “Then I’ll go with Jeremy to drop off our stuff and keep an eye on Peter. Let’s keep in touch by phone!” 

With a final wave, she and Jeremy melt into the stream of disembarking passengers, off to track their wayward father-figure.

Mikhail and I navigate the bustling airport in a silence that feels heavier now that we’re alone. At the entrance, a driver in a crisp uniform holds a sign: VOLOSHIN. 

“Let’s go,” I say, my tone all business. “This way.”

We slide into the back of a sleek sedan. The driver pulls into traffic, and the unfamiliar city begins to scroll past the window. The moment we’re moving, the pretense can drop. 

Using the excuse of pregnancy-induced car sickness that's not entirely a lie, I’ve claimed the front passenger seat. 

It gives me a sliver of privacy, compared to sitting beside him. 

My phone is a cold weight in my hand. It’s evening back home, Mr. Smith’s surgery should be over. 

But with Mikhail sitting directly behind me, I hadn’t dared to look. Now, my heart beats like a frantic drum against my ribs. I power it on, switch off airplane mode, and mute it, the screen glowing to life in my palms.

The signal connects, and the notifications hit like a dam breaking. Message after message, all from the same contact. Cassian.

I had blocked him. Then, for Mr. Smith, I’d unblocked him. Now, his texts flood the screen.

[The surgery is over. Mr. Smith’s condition is stable for now. We have pulled him back from the brink. Have you landed yet?]

The air leaves my lungs in a rush. Stable, at last!

The words feel like a lifeline. My fingers are trembling as I type a reply, keeping it minimal, terrified of betraying any emotion.

[Just landed.]

His response is almost instantaneous, as if he’s been holding his phone, waiting for my response.

[Where are you staying? I can send you the address of my place there. It has a password lock. The password is ****. The place is regularly cleaned, so you can move in directly. If the hospital is not convenient, I will arrange a car for you.]

I stare at the screen. The length of the message, the practical yet detailed offer, the specific password—it’s so unlike him. The old Cassian dealt in terse commands, single sentences that felt like verdicts. This is… chatty. Considerate. It’s unnerving.

I don’t reply. I’m not sure where I’m staying yet, and more importantly, Mikhail is in the backseat. 

I can sense that he is looking at me through the corners of his eyes, even if it looks like he's gazing out the window. Spending too long on my phone will raise questions I can’t answer. 

I lock the screen and tuck the device back into my bag.

Zina’s POV

Settled into our hotel, the real mission begins. Tracking down Peter and his “young lover.” Officially, it’s Jeremy’s family drama. 

Unofficially? I live for this stuff. 

I have basically volunteered as his intelligence agent.

Jeremy gives me that look, the one with the raised eyebrow that says he knows exactly what he’s in for. “Do not do anything reckless.”

“Me? Reckless? Never…”

Our target is a high-end beauty salon, the kind where the air smells like money and crushed orchids. We pause outside the gleaming doors. I eye the clientele drifting in with the quiet confidence of extreme wealth. Then I look at Jeremy, tall, devastatingly handsome in his tailored suit.

“Are you going in by yourself?” I ask, a mischievous grin spreading. “A man getting beauty treatments in there will attract a lot of attention. They might mistake you for a gigolo!”

His eye twitches. Just a tiny, satisfying flicker. “Do you want them to think I am a gigolo?”

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