The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 496

Chapter 496

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Gemma’s POV

Christopher stares at me, his mouth slightly agape. My sarcasm seems to have physically stung him, a novel sensation. He rallies, his bruised ego puffing back up. “What’s the problem?” he demands, though the defiance is thin.

“The problem,” I say, leaning forward just a fraction, my voice low and clear, “is that even a random extra off the street could deliver a more convincing performance. And you have the nerve to ask me what’s wrong?”

The blow lands. His face flushes, a mottled red creeping up his neck. His pride, it seems, is his most sensitive organ. He glares, trying to muster intimidation. “Do you even know who my father is?” he spits out, the classic, pathetic refrain of the privileged brat. “How dare you speak to me like that?”

Exhaustion wars with disgust. My patience, already threadbare, snaps. “Did your mother forget to tell you? Why are you asking me?” The retort is automatic, dismissive. I don’t have time for this pedigree posturing.

I stand up, the movement final. “If you’re refusing to work, I’ll inform Beckett to begin the replacement process immediately.7

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let that sink in, watching the first flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. “But think. Carefully. This film has Oscar potential. Your role is sympathetic, a career–maker. If you want to hand that opportunity, that Best Actor nomination, to some other actor -maybe Gideon, after you recover from breaking his nose–I won’t stand in your way.”

It’s the truth. Beckett’s films are cinematic events. For an actor of Christopher’s age and typical blockbuster fare, this is a golden ticket to legitimacy. I see the conflict war on his face. The dream of an award, the validation, it’s a powerful lure.

I’d told Mikhail weeks ago that Christopher was a walking liability. His personality was a time bomb. Better for him to flame out now than take Dream’s reputation down with him in some future, larger scandal. The worst–case scenario here is some diplomatic clean–up, some apologies to Beckett and the cast. Annoying, but manageable.

Christopher is utterly speechless. He’s clearly never encountered anyone who responded to the “do you know who my father is” card with sheer, unimpressed practicality. The power play has failed.

“Think it over,” I say, turning toward the door. “I’ll be outside.”

The moment I’m in the cooler, fresher air of the soundstage, I pull out my phone and dial Mikhail. The question nags at me.

Mikhail. Who exactly is his father?” A sliver of doubt rmin7

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Could he really be connected? Did I just escalate with the wrong entitled heir?

Mikhail’s voice is breezy, unconcerned. “No one you need to worry about.”

The answer is so blunt, so dismissive, it takes me a second. Then it clicks. He’s not being vague to protect me; he’s stating a fact. As Gemma Marino, forensic consultant, maybe I’d

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worry. But as Gemma… as a daughter of the Bernard family, and as Moonlight… there genuinely aren’t many people whose influence should give me pause. The realization is a sudden, strange empowerment. I’ve been operating from a place of professional caution, but my landscape has shifted. I hang up, the newfound perspective settling.

I’m about to head back into the lion’s den when a presence gives me pause. I turn.

Gideon Pierce is standing a few feet away, his hands in his pockets. The bandage on his nose is stark against his tan skin. He gives a slight, polite nod. “You’re with Dream Entertainment,” he states. His voice is deeper than I expected,

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remember instantly–he’s the victim here. Christopher’s violence was aimed at him. My role is damage control. I summon a professional, conciliatory smile. “Hello, Mr. Pierce. ges, I am. First, let me apologize, on behalf of Christor and07

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the company, for his unacceptable behavior. Dream International will, of course, cover all your medical expenses and any related costs.” I haven’t cleared it with Mikhail, but he can afford it. This is the bare minimum.

“Shall we sit?” Gideon suggests, nodding toward a quieter corner of the soundstage where a few folding chairs are set up near a fabricated window looking out on a painted lake backdrop.

I hesitate for a beat, then nod. “Of course.” I follow him, unsure of his angle. Is he going to be difficult too? I just want this resolved.

We sit. I fold my hands in my lap, adopting my most professional demeanor. “Mr. Pierce, my name is Gemma Marino. I have full authority to handle this matter. Please, feel free to state any conditions or requests. I will do everything within my power to address them.” Standard protocol. Appease the injured party, contain the scandal.

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touches Gideon’s lips. “Ms. Marino,” he says, his emerald eyes studying me. “Are you… afraid of me?”

The question throws me. It’s too personal, too perceptive. I recover quickly. “Mr. Pierce is a respected senior in the industry. It’s only right to show respect.” It’s a safe, diplomatic answer.

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His gaze drifts away from me, out toward the fake lake vista, his expression thoughtful. “Actually,” he begins, his tone conversational, “Christopher isn’t right for that role. It’s the lead, yes, but it’s too far from his actual… temperament.”

I’m surprised he’s volunteering this to me, a studio representative. It’s an honest assessment, one I share. I nod. “I understand your perspective, Mr. Pierce.”

“I won’t make an issue of the physical incident,” he continues, still looking ahead. “Tensions on set happen. But I hope you can persuade him. Walking away from this film… it would be the right choice for him.”

Up until this moment, I had no strong opinion of Gideon Pierce. He was a handsome, respected actor caught in a bad situation. Neutral. But as the last sentence leaves his lips, a subtle alarm bell rings in the back of my mind. The words are reasonable, even kind–seeming–advising a young actor for his own good. But the delivery, the calm certainty, the way he’s steering the conversation toward Christopher’s removal… It feels less like concern and more like strategy. The smile, the question about fear, the serene demeanor in the face of a broken nose–it all clicks into a different, more calculating picture.

I look at him. The handsome face and the intelligent eyes tell the story that he’s not just an innocent victim.

Something is really, really wrong.

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