The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 470

Chapter 470

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Gemma’s POV

The resort air is crisp and pine–scented, a sharp contrast to the claustrophobic drive over. I get out of the car, my heels crunching on the gravel. Cassian doesn’t turn off the engine. He leans across the passenger seat, his face framed in the open

window.

“Let me know when you’re almost done,” he says, his voice even. “I’ll be waiting for you in the parking lot.”

I open my mouth. The automatic refusal is right there—you don’t have to, I can get a cab, you’re not my chauffeur. But the words stick in my throat, dry and pointless. I know him. It wouldn’t matter anyway. Saying it would just be noise. So I simply give a small, tight nod and turn toward the grand, timbered entrance without another word.

Inside, the lobby is all soaring ceilings and rustic chic. I check in at the front desk, my name feeling flimsy on my tongue. “Gemma Marino.” A concierge in a crisp uniform directs me upstairs. The client’s assistant, a young man with an efficient smile, meets me at the elevator bank.

4. Marino, this way. The chairman will see you after his 12:25

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current meeting concludes. Please, wait in here.”

He leads me into a conference room that smells of lemon polish and new leather. He pours me a glass of water with polite, detached courtesy, then vanishes, closing the door with a soft click.

Silence descends, thick and expectant. I sink into the plush sofa, pulling out my phone. The minutes drip by, slow and syrupy. I scroll through nothing, my mind a distracted hum of Meredith’s pity, Harry’s earnestness, and the cold, hard fact of the DNA

report.

When the door finally opens again, I look up, expecting the chairman or perhaps another assistant. Instead, a woman walks in. She’s all sharp angles and effortless cool–tailored dress pants, a sapphire–blue blouse that probably costs more than my monthly rent. She moves with an ownership of the space, placing her designer bag on the sofa opposite me as if claiming territory. Without a glance in my direction, she walks to the sideboard and begins preparing a single–serve coffee, her movements precise and unhurried.

The machine gurgles and hisses. When it’s done, she turns, holding the delicate porcelain cup. “Would you like some?” Her voice is smooth, cultured.

I offer a faint, closed–lipped smile. “No, thank you.”

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She’s someone of status, that much is obvious. Not just money, but a born–in–the–bone assurance that she belongs in rooms like this. She takes her seat, crossing her legs, and sets her gaze on me. It’s not a casual look; it’s an appraisal, cool and thorough.

Under her scrutiny, my skin begins to prickle. The polite mask feels thin. “Excuse me,” I say, meeting her eyes directly. “May I ask who you are?”

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touches her lips. She looks away, taking a slow, elegant sip of her coffee. “Rehana Carey. You may also call me Sunflower.”

A jolt, small but electric, runs through me. I keep my expression neutral, but I know a flicker of recognition must have shown in my eyes. “Are you… the Sunflower from the rankings?”

The hacker leaderboards. Moonlight at the top. Luckystar a breath behind. And in third, solid and formidable: Sunflower. I never expected a face, a name, a woman in a sapphire blouse sipping coffee in a mountain resort.

Rehana registers my surprise, and a composed, proud tilt settles into her posture. “I see you’ve heard of me. But don’t make a fuss. In our world, those rankings are… rather trivial, don’t you think?”

Ah. There it is. The meaning behind her posture, her studied Bonchalance, becomes crystal clear. This isn’t an introduction;25

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it’s a display. She’s flaunting her plumage.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Carey. I’m Gemma Marino.” I stand, extending my hand across the space between the sofas. I don’t offer my alias. Mikhail must have kept that to himself when setting this up, presenting me as just another contractor.

It’s a basic professional courtesy, a handshake. She’s Aikopnishian; she knows the custom. Yet, Rehana makes no move to reciprocate. She simply lets her gaze drop to my outstretched hand and then back to my face, her arrogance as palpable as the steam rising from her cup. A peacock, indeed.

Fine. I retract my hand, unruffled, and sit back down, returning my attention to my phone. I don’t know why she’s here, but since my actual client is still absent, I feel no need to engage in her little power play.

The door opens a third time, saving us from further strained silence. A different assistant, this one in a formal suit, appears. “Ms. Marino? Would you please come with me?”

I glance at Rehana, who now studies her coffee with intense interest. So much for our thrilling conversation. I get up, a thread of irritation weaving through my focus. This negotiation process is already more convoluted than any code I’ve debugged.

If glow the man out of the conference room and toward the12:25

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elevators. “Excuse me,” I ask as we descend. “When will your chairman be available?”

“The chairman’s meeting is running longer than anticipated,” he says without looking at me. “To ensure your wait is comfortable, we’ve prepared a private lounge for you.”

A lounge. My eyebrow lifts. That means an hour, minimum. Probably two. A waste. I dislike protracted negotiations. My work is clean, fast–four hours to solve a problem they’ve wrestled with for months. Sitting in a room for two hours just to begin feels insultingly inefficient.

But I’m here now. Leaving empty–handed would be a greater loss of time and face. Reluctantly, I nod. “Lead the way.”

The “lounge” is essentially a luxury hotel room within the resort -plush sofa, a king–sized bed, a vast balcony overlooking the mist–shrouded mountains. It’s serene, which only sharpens my

annoyance.

My phone buzzes. A text from Cassian.

[How’s it going?]

My thumbs tap out a reply. **[Hasn’t started yet. Client is still in a meeting. Haven’t even seen them.]]

Higresponse is immediate. **[It’s okay. Just wait a bit longerls

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I stare at the screen. He’s just sitting in the car, in that parking lot, waiting. The obligation of it sits heavily on me. I don’t want to owe him this patience.

** [Why don’t you go back first? I’ll take a taxi later.]]

The three dots appear, then his answer, blunt and final. **[It’s fine.]]

I sigh, tossing the phone onto the sofa. Stubborn. As ever.

To distract myself, I walk out onto the balcony. The view is breathtaking, peaks piercing a slate–gray sky. It does little to calm the simmering unease in my gut. I pace, check my phone, watch the battery icon dip into the red. Finally, I put it down. Over an hour has passed. Enough.

Time to go and demand some answers or walk out.

I head for the door, my hand reaching for the handle. It doesn’t turn. I press the lever again, putting my weight into it. Nothing. It’s locked. From the outside.

A cold trickle, different from mountain air, slides down my spine. I fumble in my pocket for the keycard the assistant gave me. I swipe it. The little light stays red. I swipe again. Red.

“Damn it.”

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The curse is a sharp, foreign sound in the quiet room. I never swear. Is this an accident? Some resort screw–up?

I try the handle repeatedly, the metallic clack becoming a frantic tattoo. No. My breath starts to come quicker. I turn and stride to the room phone on the bedside table. I lift the receiver to my

ear.

Silence. Not a dial tone, not static. Dead, empty silence.

I bend, my heart hammering against my ribs now. I follow the cord from the base of the phone to where it should plug into the wall. It’s been cut. A clean, deliberate slice.

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