The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 493

Chapter 493

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Donovan’s POV

The morning’s quiet ritual is complete: the flowers are watered, Hazel has been walked and is now preening contentedly in her aviary. I settle into my favorite armchair in the study, the peace a tangible thing. Then my phone buzzes on the side table, a vulgar intrusion.

It’s a notification from the bank. I open it, expecting the usual. My breath hitches. A deposit. Seven hundred million dollars. The number sits on the screen, stark and impossible. A cold dread, instant and instinctive, washes over me. This isn’t a

windfall; it’s a statement.

“Simeon!” My call is sharper than I intend. My assistant appears in the doorway. “Trace this. Immediately.”

He returns minutes later, his expression carefully neutral. “Sir, the funds originated from an account held by the Bernard family trust.”

The Bernard family. The name is a bell tolling in the quiet room. Of course.

Before the understanding can fully crystallize, a second message

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[Donovan, I’ve returned the money you gave my granddaughter before. The extra hundred million is to thank your brat for taking care of my granddaughter!]

I stare at the words until they blur. Rodrick Bernard. That proud, unforgiving old lion. This isn’t a repayment; it’s a severance. A refund, with bitter interest. He is buying back every shred of obligation, every fragment of connection my earlier loan might have fostered. He is erasing my family’s claim to any goodwill, any future alliance.

A crushing weight settles on my chest. “Oh no,” I whisper to the silent, sun–dappled room. “It’s over. It’s completely over.” Decades of careful, if distant, friendship, obliterated with one transactional blow.

My mind races to the source of this calamity. “That brat Cassian,” I mutter, fury and despair twisting together. “Even in Florisdale, right under her nose, he couldn’t manage to secure her. And now… now with that stubborn old man personally involved…” The Bernards circling Gemma changes everything. They are a fortress. And we have just been expelled from the grounds.

“Sir Blackwell, please don’t distress yourself. There may still be a chance for them to reconcile-”

Simeon ventures, trying to offer solace.

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I cut him off with a glare that makes him step back. Chance? The Bernards don’t deal in chances. They deal in definitive actions. This money is their definitive action.

“Go,” I command, my voice gravelly with a potent mix of rage and fear. “Book me a ticket to Florisdale. Today.”

I push myself out of the chair, the peaceful morning shattered. I am not going to sit here and watch a lifetime’s empire crumble because of my grandson’s failures.

Gemma’s POV

The air in the villa still carries the faint, smoky perfume of grilled meat, but the chaos of the previous barbecue is notably absent. The living room is tidy, the kitchen spotless. Mikhail sits on the sofa like a king surveying his orderly kingdom, an expectant look on his face.

“See?” he announces, gesturing grandly. “I told you we wouldn’t make a mess of the house today! We were civilized. Respectful of the space.”

He looks so ridiculously proud, like a child showing off a gold star, that I can’t resist. The lingering warmth from my dinner with the Bernards mixes with a playful urge to knock him down

a peg.

Oh, you’re so amazing!” I gush, clasping my hands uper my:58

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Here’s a little red flower for you!” I mime pinning an invisible award to his chest.

His face darkens instantly, the smugness dissolving into affronted irritation. That’ll teach him to mess with me again, I think, inwardly delighted.

“Gemma,” he says, his voice taking on a falsely formal, managerial tone. “In light of your recent… attitude… I’ve decided to send you to a film location tomorrow. As a supervisor.”

The whiplash from teasing to work order is abrupt. “What supervisor?” I ask, my guard going up.

“Dream Entertainment has a production shooting in Jamaica,” he explains, as if it’s the most natural assignment. “Given my current mobility issues, you can go and provide oversight.”

I narrow my eyes. This feels like retaliation, pure and simple. A punishment for the little red flower. “I’m pregnant,” I state flatly, my ultimate trump card.

He doesn’t even blink. “I’ll have them prepare a dedicated lounge chair and a parasol for you. Getting some sun is excellent for prenatal health. Doctor’s orders.” He delivers it like a pre–rehearsed closing argument, ready to shut down my excuse.

Иsink onto the opposite sofa, crossing my arms. He’s uglofs

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“You’re not sending me just to ‘supervise.‘ There’s no shortage of production assistants for that. Did one of your artists cause trouble?” Dream has multiple shoots; he wouldn’t pull me into this unless it was a problem.

“Kevin,” he says, and the single name is enough to make my blood run cold.

My refusal is immediate and absolute. “I’m not going.” The memory of Kevin’s vicious, wine–fueled tantrum at the celebration banquet is still vivid, his sneering contempt aimed directly at me.

“Kevin’s contract with Dream still has a year to run,” Mikhail presses, his tone shifting to one of pragmatic concern. “If he breaches it or gets himself fired for offending the director, the financial and reputational loss is ours.”

“Has nothing to do with me,” I retort without hesitation. I work in network forensics for Dream International. Artist management is a whole different continent within the corporate empire.

“I’ll authorize a significant bonus,” he tries, switching to financial incentives.

I shake my head. “No thanks.” Money isn’t the lever here. The thought of dealing with Kevin’s petulant ego is worth more than any bonus.

: 09:58

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Mikhail sighs, running a hand through his hair, genuinely looking pained. He doesn’t want to send me; I can see that. But he’s stuck here, and he needs someone with a cool head and sharp instincts he can trust. He wants the problem solved, cleanly and efficiently, with minimal drama. He glances at Cassian, who’s been silently observing this exchange from an armchair.

Then Mikhail leans forward, coughing deliberately. “Come closer,” he says, beckoning me with a finger. “I need to tell you something.”

Curious despite myself, I lean in. He cups a hand near my ear, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper meant only for

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