The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 501

Chapter 501

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Gemma’s POV

Mikhail remains a picture of unruffled calm, his expression one of such pure, guileless innocence you’d think he was a choirboy, not a man who orchestrated a hospital escape. Vicky vibrates with fury in front of him, her hand flying up before anyone can react. “Mikhail! Are you playing games with me?”

The slap is aimed at his smug face, but it never connects. Linda, moving with a speed I didn’t know she possessed, throws herself sideways, placing her body between Vicky’s hand and Mikhail. The sharp crack of the impact is loud in the sudden quiet, landing on Linda’s shoulder. She lets out a sharp gasp, stumbling back a step.

“Enough!” I snap, stepping forward and pulling Linda away from the line of fire. She’s clutching her shoulder, her face pale with pain and shock.

Vicky glares past me at Mikhail, her chest heaving. The rage is morphing into something more wounded. He keeps going against me, not taking me seriously at all, just because he knows I like him. The thought is written plainly on her face, a tragic

script.

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“Mikhail,” she declares, her voice trembling with the force of her emotion, “I will never like you again!”

He merely rubs his earlobe, his demeanor infuriatingly casual. “You’ve said that so many times before.” The hope in his eyes is genuine–he truly wishes she’d mean it this time.

To Vicky, her heartfelt declaration, her very real hurt, is being treated as a punchline. Her disbelief is palpable. “If you don’t like me,” she cries, her voice breaking, “then why did you come to the bar to find me that night?” It’s her trump card. He’d just had surgery. It was a reckless, dramatic gesture. “You clearly have feelings for me! Why won’t you admit it?”

She’s laid bare her truth: she’s never liked anyone else. The infatuation began with the idea of the soldier, and persisted despite the frustrating reality of the man. In her mind, her devotion should be enough. Instead, she’s been reduced to a desperate, pathetic figure in his eyes.

Mikhail’s expression sobers. The playful mask drops. “I explained it to you that night,” he says, his voice low and utterly serious. “Your brother is my friend. You went to that bar because of a fight with me. I felt responsible.” He pauses, his gaze sharpening. “And I don’t like people who don’t take their own safety seriously.”

The last sentence is heavy, weighted with a perspective Vicky can’t possibly understand. He’s seen the cost of reckle essUP 1

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close, in life and limb. Her spiteful trip to a dangerous bar wasn’t a romantic cry for attention to him; it was a profound, childish disrespect for the value of a life he’s sworn to protect.

Vicky’s breath hitches. The tears she’s been fighting spill over, tracing hot paths down her cheeks. She looks from his implacable face to Linda, still rubbing her shoulder, to the rest of us watching this painful spectacle. Words fail her. With a final, choked sound, she spins on her heel and flees the villa, the door slamming shut behind her with a hollow finality.

The tension in the room dissipates by a fraction. Mikhail lets out a long, slow breath, his shoulders relaxing minutely. One crisis contained.

On the other side of the room, a different tension is brewing. Grandpa has been watching the drama with a grandfatherly detachment, but now his focus shifts entirely to me. His eyes are kind, but there’s a keen intelligence behind them.

“Gemma,” he begins, his voice warm. “I understand you’ve reconnected with the Bernard family?”

I’m not entirely surprised he knows. The Blackwell family’s network is vast. I offer a polite smile. “Yes, Grandpa. We had dinner recently.”

He nods, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “I sec… I see… Did they, by any chance, mention anything about the Blackwell pily:31

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The question is carefully casual. I’m wary. “Does the Bernard family have some connection with the Blackwells?” I ask, playing naive.

His face brightens, seizing the opening. “Oh, a deep one! For decades, the Blackwells and the Bernards have been the closest of friends. We know each other inside and out. Why, Rodrick and I even joked about arranging a marriage between our children, back in the day.” He chuckles, a rich, practiced sound. “And look how fate works! You and my Cassian make such a perfect match. It’s as if it was meant to be.”

The blatant maneuvering is so awkward it’s almost impressive. I feel a flush of discomfort creep up my neck. Before I can formulate a gentle deflection, Mikhail’s voice cuts through the thick air like a knife.

“Sir Blackwell,” he says from the sofa, his tone deceptively light. “Gemma and your grandson are divorced. They are no longer a

‘match.“”

Grandpa’s benevolent smile freezes. He turns his head slowly, pinning Mikhail with a look that could curdle milk. The friendly grandfather vanishes, replaced by the steely patriarch. “What I meant,” he says, each word precise and cold, “is that given our families‘ historic closeness, it would be a most favorable outcome for everyone if Gemma and Cassian were to reconcile.”

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From the kitchen doorway, Cassian has been listening, his expression growing increasingly tense. He moves now, crossing the room swiftly. “Grandpa,” he says, his voice firm but respectful as he takes Grandpa’s arm. “That’s enough. Let’s not talk about this anymore.” He begins guiding him toward the stairs, a clear attempt to end the conversation and shield me from the pressure.

He doesn’t want me to feel cornered. In our time here, he hasn’t asked me again for a second chance. I’ve seen the strategy in his actions—the quiet support, the space, the unspoken hope that if he proves himself steady enough, I might choose him again on my own terms. Forcing the issue, he knows, would only make me retreat.

Grandpa, however, is having none of it. As Cassian guides him up the first few steps, the old man’s suppressed frustration boils over. He raises his elegant cane and brings it down with a solid thwack across Cassian’s back.

“You! Look at you!” Grandpa hisses, the veneer of civility gone. “If I hadn’t come, how much longer would you have dragged this out? Hmm?”

Cassian absorbs the blow with a barely perceptible flinch, his jaw tightening. He keeps his voice low, meant only for his grandfather. “I just don’t want to make things difficult for Gemma.”

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“You don’t want to make things difficult for her, so you make things difficult for me instead?” Grandpa’s whisper is fierce. “I am an old man! Who knows how much time I have left! Do you want me to die with this regret?”

“Grandpa, don’t say things like that,” Cassian replies, his voice strained with a mixture of affection and exasperation. Grandpa is the picture of robust health; the dramatic pronouncement rings hollow.

Still fuming, Grandpa raises the cane again, as if to strike, but halts the motion midway. The anger wars with the love for his grandson. He can’t bring himself to do it again. Instead, he leans closer, his eyes darting back toward the living room where Mikhail is now pointedly studying the ceiling.

“That man downstairs,” Grandpa mutters, his voice a gravelly whisper. “Mikhail. He’s interested in Gemma, isn’t he?”

The question catches Cassian off guard. He glances back toward the living room, his own uncertainty plain. Mikhail’s feelings are an enigma–sometimes they seem to border on possessive protectiveness, other times it’s pure, playful camaraderie. Cassian honestly doesn’t know.

His silence is answer enough for Grandpa. The old man’s hand darts out, not with the cane, but to grab Cassian’s ear, giving it a sharp, painful twist. “What am I going to do with you?” he grumbles, the words a mix of despair and fury. “You ct ex

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properly identify your competition! All these years, completely wasted!”

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