The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 483

Chapter 483

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Gemma’s POV

The server’s cheerful call slices through the tense quiet at our table. “Mr. Cooper! Your coffee is ready!”

We all turn almost in unison toward the shadowy corner booth, where Liam Cooper looks like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

His cover is blown. He offers a sheepish, pained grimace and rises awkwardly. “That’s… mine. My coffee!”

The puzzle clicks together with a snap. Zina’s eyebrows shoot up, while Jeremy’s gaze sharpens. Cassian lets out a slow, understanding breath. Liam is the common denominator… The tipster.

Holding the small cup like a shameful trophy, Liam shuffles toward our now–crowded booth. He gives a strained, apologetic smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Uh… would you mind if I joined you?”

No one objects. Not openly. What’s one more? And just like that, our party inflates from five to six.

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I’m not bothered; his presence is just another piece of the evening’s strange furniture. Zina seems to shrug it off, though a flicker of annoyance crosses her face. Jeremy and Cassian, veterans of a thousand awkward social battles, simply reset their expressions to neutral, accepting the new variable.

But Liam is a portrait of misery. He perches on the edge of the spare chair we drag over, holding his coffee as if it’s a lifeline. He’s caught in a no–man’s land, too committed to leave, too exposed to relax. He picks up a menu, puts it down, shifts in his seat. He wishes, palpably, for the floor to swallow him whole. He’s a spy who got his cover blown in the most mundane way possible, by a barista.

The dinner proceeds with small talk that carefully avoids the elephant in the room: Why are you all here? When the plates are finally cleared, Zina leans toward me, her eyes lit up.

“Gemma, did you hear?” she begins, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Sybille’s bestie, Sandra. They had a massive falling out. A few days ago, Sandra sabotaged a shipment at the port… it held goods for both her own husband and Sybille. Sybille’s staring down a multi–million–dollar loss

now.”

I look up, genuinely surprised. My gaze flicks automatically to Cassian. He would know. “Did you know about this?”

He gives a single, slow nod. Of course he knows. Sybill is a 11:33

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Blackwell, however problematic. News, especially disastrous. news, travels fast, even across oceans. “Grandpa nearly cut ties with her over it,” he confirms, his voice low.

Zina, eager to share the full saga, picks up the thread. She explains how Sybille, always scheming, had been pushing to get her daughter, Claire, into management at Paramount Airlines.

Her marriage into the Marshall family was more like a shotgun wedding. Grandpa had been furious, believing the Blackwell name shouldn’t be groveling for the Marshalls‘ approval, but Sybille insisted.

After the marriage and the birth of her daughter, the Marshall family’s interest waned completely. With her husband useless, Sybille’s sights swung back to the mafia empire behind the Blackwell name.

Grandpa Donovan, wary and wise, made it his mission to keep her and her proxies out of Paramount.

“With no way in,” Zina continues, relishing the details, “Sybille needed another revenue stream. Going into business with Sandra’s husband was just a practical move for her.”

But after that party, Sandra must have seen the massive

betrayal. After a furious confrontation, they stopped speaking, and Sandra clapped back.

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“Sybille was scrambling,” Zina says, her tone rich with irony. “Couldn’t come up with the millions, so had to go crawling back to Grandpa.”

Cassian nods again, his expression grim. “He was furious.

Nearly severed ties on the spot. If Jennifer and a few others hadn’t calmed him, Sybille would be banned from Blackwell

Manor.”

“Now,” Zina finishes, “Sybille is doing everything to get back in his good graces. She even sent Claire to the manor today, hoping to sweet–talk the old man into covering the loss.”

A small smile touches my lips. I find the whole situation darkly amusing. Now that the whole ugly truth is exposed, the one left holding the burning wreckage, facing the multi–million–dollar flames, is naturally Sybille.

I just feel a cold sense of satisfaction. Some messes clean themselves up.

Donovan’s POV

The quiet of the garden is a balm, broken only by the soft rustle of leaves and the distant, contented chirp of Gigi the parakeet in her aviary. Then, the French doors clatter open, and the peace shatters. Sybille strides out, her arms laden with bags and boxes, a determined smile plastered on her face.

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Boredom, thick and immediate, settles over me. “What are you doing here again?” I ask, not bothering to look up from the rose bush I’m inspecting for aphids.

She beams, undeterred, and bustles over to a hovering maid, unloading her burdens. “Dad, these are for Gigi! I heard she was injured. I bought her the finest canned food!”

I almost scoff. Sybille used to despise Gigi. An allergy to animal hair, she claimed, sneezing dramatically whenever the bird was near. She merely tolerated her for my sake. And Gigi, clever creature, always returned the sentiment, giving Sybille a wide berth as if she were made of glass. Now, she comes bearing gifts for the bird. The calculation is as transparent as the greenhouse

panes.

“Dad, do these flowers need tending? I’ll go help you!” she chirps, seeing her avian bribery has failed.

I ignore her. She takes this as permission, snatching up a watering can. She has no skill for this. At the Marshall esRennet, servants handle the greenery. She approaches my prized camellias and douses them with a heavy, clumsy hand, water sluicing off the leaves and pooling at the roots, threatening rot.

After watching her brutalize a third plant, my patience

evaporates. I stride over and wrench the can from her grip. “My greenery can’t afford your… care,” I say, the word tasting bitter.

You’d better go and rest.”

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A flush of embarrassment colors her cheeks. She recovers quickly. “Dad, just let the maid do these things. You’re not in good health. You shouldn’t tire yourself.”

Her concern, so patently false, fans the embers of my anger into a flame. “If you want me to be fit,” I say, my voice low and hard,

“don’t come here!”

“Dad, what do you mean by that?” Her face morphs into a mask of wounded pride. “Of course there are losses and gains in business! Losing money isn’t what I wanted!”

She feels aggrieved. She always does. I fix her with a steady glare. “It’s true. Business has its wins and losses. But your business was destined to lose money. Sooner or later. Don’t you know that?”

The words land. She blinks, stunned into silence.

“You used your good friend. You kept her in the dark, treated her like a fool.” I turn my back, focusing on gently watering the abused camellia. “But is she really that foolish? Or is her biggest folly trusting a friend like you?”

I don’t want to say more. The lesson is there if she chooses to see it. I hear her blink, processing. Then her footsteps approach again, tentative on the gravel path.

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“Dad, I know,” she says, her voice softer now, layered with a performative regret. “But I did it for Sandra’s sake. Who wants to hear that their husband is unfaithful? I was afraid she wouldn’t be able to take it. Well… I was wrong!”

I continue my task, the steady shush of water the only answer I give. I act as if I haven’t heard her. The apology is for her predicament, not for her character. The garden, my true companion, requires a more honest touch.

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