The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 494

Chapter 494

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Gemma’s POV

The numbers flash in my mind, a rapid, terrifying calculation. Raising a child is a financial black hole. From kindergarten’s exorbitant monthly fees to the endless river of cash for hobbies, tutors, and school trips, it’s a daunting mountain. Every contract I take, every line of code I debug, is partly fueled by this future fear: wanting my child to have choices, to explore, to not be limited by my bank account. And Mikhail isn’t just offering tuition. He said expenses. The everyday, grinding costs of food, clothes, healthcare.

I look at him, the playfulness gone, replaced by hard–eyed assessment. “Do you mean what you say?”

He scoffs, offended. “When have I ever not meant what I say?” He’s right. He’s infuriating, manipulative, but his promises are concrete. The Porsche 911, billboard decals and all, is proof. His

word is a contract.

My mind races, weighing the scale of his problem against the enormity of his offer. Kevin’s tantrum could cost Dream millions in penalties and lost endorsements. Mikhail’s offer, while huge for me, is likely a fraction of that potential loss. I’m not being dutthroat; I’m being proportionate.

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“Until high school,” I say, the words dropping into the quiet room like a stone.

His jaw slackens. “Gemma! You’re taking advantage of me!” The outrage is genuine. Covering costs through junior high was already a princely sum. High school? In an international context? The “miscellaneous expenses“-the trips, the tech, the unavoidable social costs–are a fortune. And the child isn’t even

his.

A flicker of guilt passes through me. Is this unethical? Am I exploiting his need? But I think of Lisette, of the quiet struggles I never understood as a child. I think of providing a bedrock of security so absolute my child would never have to think about it. This isn’t greed; it’s a fortress.

I meet his indignant gaze, my own resolve hardening. I lean in slightly. “Take it or leave it.”

I am absolutely seizing the opportunity. This is business.

I watch him grind his teeth, the conflict playing out on his face -frustration at my audacity versus the cold calculation of the cheaper option. He’s been outmaneuvered, and he knows it. Since we met, in all our tangled dealings, I’ve rarely come out on the losing end.

Finally, he exhales, a sharp, defeated sound. “Okay. High school. Deal. You start tomorrow.”

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Triumph, sweet and fierce, blooms in my chest. The grin that spreads across my face is unstoppable. I lean closer, lowering my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “After the baby is born, I’ll have them call you godfather. The best godfather.”

The title seems to disorient him. The anger visibly leaks away, replaced by a peculiar, contemplative look. He’s never been a godfather. The idea of a small person attached to him with that kind of affectionate, honorary title… I can see the novelty of appealing to his peculiar sensibilities. And then another thought

to strike him–the child will be Cassian’s. The potential term, subtle mischief, for teaching a mini–Blackwell needle his father… a slow, utterly creepy smile spreads across his face.

“Mikhail, don’t laugh like that!” I say, a shiver running down my spine. People might think he’s plotting a murder, not a mentorship. It makes me second–guess the whole ‘godfather‘ idea.

He waves a dismissive hand, still smiling that unsettling smile. I decide to change the subject to the practical. “By the way… is his last name Beckinsale or Martinez?” It’s a question that’s been nagging at me.

He gives me a look of pure pity, as if I’ve asked if the sky is green. “O

that

nge name, the other’s his real name. Stars do

feller, pick a ‘lucky‘ name for fame.” He rolls ner. Sounds artsy and pretentious,

esnit

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The next day, I trade my usual attire for soft, casual clothes and make my way to the film set on the outskirts of the city. It’s a world of organized chaos–towering light stands, snaking cables, bustling crew in headsets. I walk with a permanent hunch, terrified of tripping over a million–dollar camera rig.

My first stop is the director, Beckett Rosario. He’s a man with a permanent storm cloud over his head, and the introduction from Mikhail’s office does little to clear it. He’s civil, but the

stration radiates off him in waves.

beckett, I’d like to understand what happened yesterday,” I begin, keeping my tone neutral and professional. “Please, just ́lay it out for me. I’ll speak with the Dream representatives afterward.”

He shakes his head, a gesture of profound exhaustion. “That boy… Kevin… he is not an actor. He is an idol. A pretty face for photo shoots. He should be on “Talent Show,‘ not on my set.” The bluntness is refreshing. He’s not a sell–out; he’s an artist stuck with a product.

“Look at this,” he growls, gesturing to a monitor. “This is from yest Do you know how many takes we did? Over a dozen!

his shoulder to look at the playback. The se is:58

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dramatic, rain–soaked confession. Kevin, his hair artfully plastered to his forehead, clutches his co–star’s shoulders.

The audio crackles to life. Kevin’s voice, meant to be brimming with tragic passion, comes out in a stilted, bizarrely emphatic shout: “Honey! I’ll never give up on you in this lifetime! If anything happens! I’ll make everyone accompany you in death!”

The line delivery is so awful, so utterly devoid of genuine emotion while being unexpectedly and shockingly intense at all the wrong places.

I’m rendered completely speechless.

I stare at the screen, then at Beckett’s pained expression. My professional mandate crystallizes in an instant. This isn’t just about contract breaches or diva behavior, this is a operation for a scene and potentially an entire project, being murdered by his bad acting.

“What in the world,” I finally manage to whisper, “is up with this line delivery?”