The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 473

Chapter 473

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Gemma’s POV

Silence hangs in the conference room after I agree to the terms. Oliver interprets my quiet as a lingering offense. His smile is all polished diplomacy.

“What happened earlier was just an unfortunate misunderstanding,” he says smoothly, a peacemaker who benefits from peace. “I’m sure Ms. Carey recognizes her error. Rehena, please, extend an apology to Ms. Marino.”

All

eyes shift to Rehena. Her jaw is tight, but she’s a businesswoman first. She needs this contract. She meets my gaze, and the arrogance is still there, banked like a cold fire behind her eyes. The words are forced out, hollow and flat. “I’m

sorry.”

Two words. Devoid of any weight, any genuine remorse. It’s a checkbox being ticked, nothing more. I understand her type. People who climb rankings, who see their name in lights, often start to believe the hierarchy is a natural law, and they belong at the top. An apology from on high is a concession, not an admission.

1 say nothing. My silence is acceptance enough for this chardde44

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< Chapter 473

Rehena doesn’t even look at me. “I have no objections.” The sRennelment is confident, bordering on dismissive. She’s never lost a pitch like this. She doesn’t plan to start now.

I nod slightly. “No objections.”

Oliver stands, his relief palpable. “Splendid! I’m afraid I have another engagement. My assistant will see you out.” He makes a swift exit, leaving the two of us in the charged quiet of the room.

The moment the door clicks shut, Rehena’s polished mask slips. She turns her head, her gaze sweeping over me with undisguised contempt. “Don’t misinterpret that,” she says, her voice a low sneer. “The apology was for his benefit, not an acknowledgment of your skill. If you’re smart, you’ll walk away now and save yourself the embarrassment.”

I find it almost amusing. The sheer, unvarnished gall. “I’ve never known a competent person to voluntarily surrender an opportunity,” I reply, my tone conversational. “Besides, the proposals aren’t written yet. The outcome is still very much undecided.”

I agreed to this competition not because I’ve forgiven her sabotage, but for two simple reasons: it’s the professional path. forward, and I am, frankly, supremely confident in what I can do. Moonlight, the name that sits unchallenged at the top of boards Rehena can only dream of, doesn’t lose. The person who cangbeat me hasn’t been born.

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sentiment. Don’t come crying to anyone when you lose.”

“I’d offer you the same advice,” I say, remaining seated, perfectly calm. I don’t need to stand to meet her challenge.

My placidity is a weapon she doesn’t know how to counter. She wanted a reaction–anger, fear, bluster. She gets nothing but my composed reflection in the polished table. Her face flushes with frustrated anger. Hitting this particular wall, she finally gives up, snatches her portfolio, and stalks out without another word.

I take a deeper breath, letting the tension of the confrontation seep out. When I exit, Cassian is there, pacing a trench in the hallway carpet. His head snaps up, anxiety smoothing into acute

concern the second he sees me.

“Hospital appointment. Now,” he sRennets, closing the distance. He hasn’t forgotten.

I don’t have the energy to argue, and he’s right—a check–up is prudent, considering the smoke and the stress. “Alright.”

The clinic visit is a blur of efficiency. The ultrasound gel is cold, the wand pressure familiar. The steady, rapid whoosh–whoosh–whoosh of a tiny, strong heartbeat fills the small room. The doctor pronounces everything perfect, the baby unfazed by its mother’s dramatic afternoon. Cassian’s shoulders slump with a relief so profound it’s audible. “Thank God.”

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fail–safes. It’s a complex, beautiful puzzle. I steal hours to visit Mikhail in the hospital, a necessary respite.

His room has become a bizarrely lively stage. Linda is a constant, quiet presence. Vicky, who flew in in a whirlwind of designer luggage and outrage, has added a volatile new element. She and Linda trade barbs with the precision of dueling fencers. Mikhail usually endures it until his patience snaps, then barks at Vicky, who inevitably flounces out, only to return the next day as if the tantrum never happened.

Today, I’m handing Mikhail a meticulously peeled apple. “Your security detail has gotten very… sociable,” I remark. “Two dedicated guards. You must feel terribly important.”

He groans, accepting the apple with his good hand. “Important? I feel like I’m losing my mind. When can I get out of this pastel prison?”

“The doctor says once the stitches dissolve and the wound seals. Maybe two more weeks.”

“Two weeks?!” He looks genuinely pained.

“For a gut wound, that’s record time,” I point out, wiping the fruit knife clean.

He grumbles but lets it go. “What about the job Mr. Smith sent you on? They didn’t give you too much grief, I hope?”■

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< Chapter 473

jammer, the smoke. No need to worry him. He has enough on his plate.

Mikhail’s expression darkens. “Mr. Smith is testing my patience. I’m calling him.” He reaches for his phone.

I lay a hand over his, stopping him. “Don’t. Competition is fine. It’s better, actually.” It’s the truth. Without a challenge, without a rival like Rehena to crush, how do I prove my worth? Not just to Rennet, but to myself. To everyone who only sees the surface.

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