The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 505

Chapter 505

Mikhail’s POV

I stare at Gemma’s retreating back, utterly speechless. If I had the faintest idea how to cook, I wouldn’t have asked her

to get the ingredients in the first place. The whole point was her doing the work!

She grabs her purse and heads for the door. Cassian is

instantly in motion, snatching his coat. “I’ll go with you.” He doesn’t like the idea of her going out alone. From the sofa, Donovan gives a slow, approving nod. Finally, the boy is using

his head.

5

Gemma considers it for a second–driving will make hauling groceries easier—and gives a short nod. They leave together.

The moment the door clicks shut, the atmosphere shifts.

Donovan settles onto the sofa opposite me, his hands resting

on the head of his cane. His eyes, sharp and assessing, lock

onto mine. “Don’t,” he says, his voice low and unequivocal, “even think about making a move on Gemma.”

1/7

11:15

8 min left

< Chapter 505

I glance at him, a smirk playing on my lips. Might as well poke the bear. “Gemma’s carrying my child, you know.”

He doesn’t even blink. His expression remains as placid as a frozen lake. “You really think I don’t know that child is

Cassian’s?”

My thumb pauses on the game controller. Well. That’s a twist.

“You know,” I say slowly, “and you haven’t told your precious grandson?”

He snorts, a derisive sound. “That boy deserves to suffer

a bit.” His reasoning is clear: he wants Cassian to feel a

fraction of the pain he inflicted. It’s not about keeping them apart. Besides, he knows Gemma’s character. She would never have been pregnant with another man’s child while legally tied to Cassian. If she were that sort, he’d never have allowed the marriage. The old fox prides himself on his judgment, and he’s rarely wrong. He also, I can tell, believes my interest in Gemma isn’t purely platonic.

“Even if you tell Cassian the truth,” I counter, leaning back, “if Gemma doesn’t want to remarry him, there’s nothing he can do. Instead of warning me off, you should be telling your grandson to up his game.”

2/7

11:15

8 min leff

< Chapter 505

Donovan huffs, glaring at me. He already knows I’m not going to be an easy opponent to intimidate. He tries a different tack, his voice taking on a nostalgic, almost conspiratorial tone. “Your father and I… we have some history, you know.”

I shoot him a look. “My dad’s a soldier. He has ‘history‘ with a lot of people.” Is this where he tries to bond with me? Pathetic.

“So,” he presses, undeterred, “tell me. What kind of woman do you like? I’ll find one for you. Guaranteed to satisfy.”

I meet his gaze head–on, my smile all teeth. “I like someone like Gemma.”

For a moment, the old man just stares, his face flushing with a mixture of fury and frustration. He looks like he’s weighing the pros and cons of bringing his cane down on my head.

At the end, he decides he doesn’t want to give himself a heart attack arguing with me. With a final glare, he pushes himself up with his cane and stomps off toward the backyard, presumably to calm his nerves among the flowers.

Gemma’s POV

3/7

11:15

909 18

< Chapter 505

He doesn’t realize that my selections have nothing to do with him. My mind is a blank culinary slate: this vegetable works, this one doesn’t, this combination creates depth. I’m not thinking about his preferences; I’m reconstructing a recipe from the ghost of my mother’s kitchen. But the cart, it seems, is filled with all his favorites–the vegetables he’d eat with complaint, the ones I’d learned to buy during those three

years of silent, observational marriage. The subconscious is a treacherous thing.

Seeing that accidental assembly, a wave of warmth visibly washes over him. His steps become lighter, his posture

easing. He thinks it’s a signal, a secret message of care. He’s

weaving a narrative I’m not even writing.

The cart is full. We turn toward the checkout lanes, but

Cassian stops dead, his gaze locked on a brightly colored display. I walk back to find him standing motionless before a towering wall of baby formula, his expression one of intense,

bewildered concentration.

“Let’s go,” I say, my voice pulling him from his trance.

He turns, his eyes earnest. “Gemma… which brand do you

think is best?”

5/7

11:15

< Chapter 505

The question is so utterly misplaced it takes me a second. “Why do you even care about that?”

“I’ve been reading,” he says, his tone achingly sincere. “Breastfeeding… it can be really painful. I was thinking, if formula is an option, it might be easier for you.” Since learning of the pregnancy, he’s immersed himself in the facts -the discomfort, the risks, the sheer physical toll. His worry is a tangible thing; he’s searching for any way to alleviate a hardship he imagines for me.

I turn to face him fully, pressing my lips together against a sudden, complicated surge of feeling. “It’s way too early to be thinking about that,” I say, my voice tighter than I intend. “And besides…” I add, the lie tasting like ash but necessary, “it’s not even your baby.”

The words lack conviction, even to my own ears. The light

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify