The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 491

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Chapter 491

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Gemma’s POV

The weight of Cassian’s words settles on me, heavy but undeniable. He’s not wrong. And the fear I’ve been nursing is just that: my fear.

I never asked her when she was alive, and she is not here to tell me if she resented them, or if she’d want this for me. I’ve been making assumptions to protect a ghost.

Cassian walks up to me, his presence a solid warmth. He places a hand on my shoulder,

“I think Lisette would have wanted what’s best for you, Gemma.” He pauses, acknowledging the irony. “I know I’m the last person with the right to say this. You can blame me for a lot. But you shouldn’t deny yourself this opportunity because of… everything else.”

His humility disarms me. He’s right. My ability to stand alone doesn’t mean I have to reject a family that wants me. The loneliness of the past few years is a deep, cold well inside me. The idea of it being filled is terrifying, but also, achingly

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faint, flickering hope. Finally, I ask, “What time is their reservation?”

A triumphant smile spreads across Mikhail’s face from the sofa. “Six–thirty. I’ve sent the address to your phone.” He gives me a playful salute. “Good luck!”

Sometimes, his meddling is infuriating. Sometimes, like now, it’s the stubborn push I need.

Later, after a shower and a change into a simple, elegant dress, I stand on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. My palms are damp, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs. I don’t know what awaits me upstairs. I don’t know these people, their expectations, their true feelings. Meredith’s kindness and Harry’s earnestness might be the exception, not the rule.

But if I don’t go up, I’ll never know. This might be one of the few genuine chances at a root system my life will ever offer. With that thought anchoring me, I take a deep breath of the evening air and step inside.

It’s an authentic, hushed French restaurant. The lighting is low, casting intimate pools of gold on white linen. The air smells of thyme and reduced wine. A respectful silence blankets the space, broken only by the soft clink of cutlery. It’s the opposite of Mikhail’s chaotic barbecue. It feels serious, permanent.

give the host the reservation name, my voice surprisingly 09:58

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door. When he opens it, I freeze on the threshold.

The private room is warmly lit. Meredith and Harry are there, familiar anchors in a sea of new faces. There are four others: an elegant older woman dabbing her eyes with a napkin, a distinguished, serious–looking man in his late fifties, a younger woman with a sharp, intelligent gaze, and an elderly gentleman who commands the room simply by sitting at the head of the table. My family.

I force a small, polite smile and walk in. “Hello. I’m Gemma.”

Meredith is up in an instant, crossing the room to take both my hands. Her eyes are bright. “Gemma! Come, sit here.” She guides me to a chair between herself and the teary woman.

As soon as I’m seated, the woman–Annie, I’ll learn―reaches over and squeezes my hand, fresh tears spilling over. “Annie,” Meredith says gently, “Gemma just arrived. Maybe save the waterworks for later?”

Annie laughs through her tears, a charming, watery sound, and wipes her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m your cousin, Annie. If you need anything in the future, you come to me, okay?”

As soon as she says it, the younger woman and Harry chime in. “We can all help! Why does it have to be you?” The protest is good–natured, a playful competition to welcome me. Their enthusiasm is overwhelming, a wave I don’t know how swing8

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Meredith takes over, her voice a calming guide. “Gemma, you know me your sister, Meredith. This,” she gestures to the serious man, “is our father, Dexter Bernard. You know Harry, your nephew.” She points to the younger woman. “Cousin Annie Harlow. And next to Annie is your great–uncle, Rodrick Bernard.”

My gaze travels to each face, a quick study. Finally, it lands on Dexter. My… father. I search his features. There it is- a resemblance in the set of his brows, the shape of his eyes. A biological truth made flesh. Then I look at Rodrick, the patriarch. He’s around Donovan’s age, but his bearing is more vigorous, his gaze clearer and sharper.

It’s Rodrick who speaks first, his voice a deep, measured baritone that fills the room. “Since you’re back, you are a Bernard. From now on, your name is Gemma Bernard.”

The declaration is simple, absolute. But it feels like a erasure. Gemma Marino has been my identity through joy and sorrow, through love and divorce. It’s the name Lisette gave me.

“I… quite like the name Gemma Marino,” I say softly. It’s not a refusal, but a statement of fact, a holding onto my own history.

Rodrick studies me, his expression unreadable. The silence stretches. Then, he gives a single, slow nod. “If you don’t wish to change it, that’s fine.”

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The concession surprises me. I’d braced for a battle, for

patriarchal decree. His flexibility disarms another layer of my defensiveness.

Dexter speaks next, his tone calm, containing a warmth that seems hesitant but genuine. “Gemma, we are deeply sorry about your mother. If you wish, she can be honored in the Bernard family ancestral hall.” The offer is grand, formal, a gesture of immense respect.

Before I can process it, Meredith jumps in. “Dad, let’s save such matters for later. Tonight is about welcoming Gemma home. Let’s just enjoy a family dinner.”

Dexter nods, yielding to her. “You’re right. Let’s eat.”

The meal passes in a blur of exquisite courses. Meredith and Annie carry the conversation, asking gentle questions about my work, my life in Florisdale, carefully skirting any landmines. I answer politely, the nervous knot in my stomach slowly loosening. Dexter and Rodrick are quiet, observing, but their silence doesn’t feel hostile. It feels… cautious, perhaps as unsure of this new dynamic as I am.

As dessert plates are cleared, Rodrick finally addresses the elephant that has been sitting with us all evening. “Meredith mentioned you are pregnant.”

There’s no point in hiding the subtle curve of my abdo en 09:58

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