The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 507

< The Don Tore Up Our Divorce

Chapter 507

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Gemma’s POV

I am standing by the restroom door, the world a blur of sound and color that doesn’t penetrate the cold, paralyzing horror wrapped around me. A voice cuts through the static.

“Gemma? Are you okay?”

It’s Cassian. He’s walked over, the shopping cart abandoned, his face etched with confusion that quickly sharpens into concern as he takes in my expression.

The sound of his voice yanks me back into my body, but it’s a painful return. My eyes, wide and terrified, lock onto his. I don’t speak. I can’t. In the next second, I spin on my heel and shove my way back through the women’s restroom door.

The cleaner is gone. The stall where the woman was is now empty, the door hanging slightly ajar. Where did she go? I was right outside! I would have seen her leave! But I realize with a sinking dread–I never saw her face. I have no idea what she looks like. She could have walked right past me.

A frantic, desperate energy surges through me. I push open the door of the stall next to mine. Empty. I shove the next one. Empty. I move down the line, my actions becoming more 18:10

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< Chapter 507

frantic, throwing open each door to find nothing but pristine porcelain. It’s as if she was never here. A ghost. A malicious phantom.

I stand in the center of the tiled room, the hum of the ventilation fan loud in my ears. Defeat, cold and heavy, presses down on me. There’s nothing to find. No evidence, no witness. Just the burning line on my wrist.

When I stumble back out, Cassian is waiting, his worry now a palpable force. “Gemma, what happened?” His voice is tight, scared. “Don’t scare me like this.” The last time he saw me this shattered was at Wendy’s funeral. He thought he’d lost me then. I can see the shadow of that memory in his eyes.

I stare at him, my vision swimming. The dam cracks. Tears well, hot and unstoppable, and spill over my cheeks. The words are a broken whisper, torn from a place of pure terror. “I… I think I might have HIV.”

“What?” The word is a punch of disbelief. He looks at me as if I’ve spoken in tongues. She just went to the bathroom. How could this happen?

Seeing his shock, the reality crashes over me again, harder. A sob escapes, then another. I can’t stand here. I turn and flee, not toward the checkout, but straight for the supermarket’s exit, needing air, needing to escape the scene of the crime.

“Gemma!” He’s right behind me, his longer strides easily 2/7

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< Chapter 507

keeping pace. “We can go to the hospital! Now! They have post–exposure prophylaxis! It’s effective if we start right away!”

His words are a lifeline, the first piece of practical sense in the nightmare. I don’t argue. I just run.

In the car, he doesn’t press for details. His focus is absolute, his driving swift and precise as he navigates to the nearest hospital. The world outside the window is a meaningless smear of light

and motion.

At the hospital, the process is a blur of white coats and clinical questions. The nurse who writes the prescription for the PEP medication gives me a long, pitying look that makes me want to crawl out of my skin. When I finally have the first dose in my hand–a small, innocuous pile of pills–I don’t wait for water. I dry–swallow them, needing the chemicals in my system, needing to start the fight.

The doctor explains the regimen: twenty–eight days.

Twenty–eight days of waiting, of wondering, of this chemical barrier being the only thing between me and a life–altering virus. As I stare at the bottle, my fingers tremble so violently I can barely hold it.

A new, more visceral terror lances through me. I’ve been so consumed by my own fear, I forgot. The baby.

I sink onto a hard plastic chair in the hallway, my body going cold, a sheen of sweat breaking out over my skin. I feel like I’m 3/7

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< Chapter 507

going to be sick.

Cassian sits beside me, handing me a paper cup of water. His voice is steady, a calm port in my storm. “I asked the doctor. Since you’re still in the early first trimester, the medication carries a very low risk to the fetus. It’s considered safe. Don’t worry about that.”

The relief that it won’t hurt the baby is so profound it breaks me in a different way. The dam shatters completely. I bury my face in my hands, the tears coming in silent, wrenching waves. I can’t speak. All I can think is: Twenty–eight days. Each one will be a torture. How did a simple act of decency–passing toilet paper under a stall–lead to this? Is it wrong to help someone? If I had known… I should have just walked away. The regret is a bitter poison. I feel like the world’s greatest fool, played so easily.

“Gemma,” Cassian says, his voice gentle but firm. “Can you tell me what happened? I’m here. We’ll face this together. It’s going to be okay.” His heartache is visible, a physical pain in the way he watches me. He wants to hold me, I can see it, but he’s afraid to touch me, afraid I’ll shatter or recoil. So he just sits, a steadfast presence.

In halting, broken sentences, I stammer out the story–the woman, the nails, the scratch, the bizarre request, William’s brother waiting outside with his vile proclamation. When I finish, I look at him, my eyes begging for a denial he can’t give. “What if I really am infected?”

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< Chapter 507

“Gemma,” he says, his hand hovering near my shoulder before settling firmly on my back, a warm, grounding pressure. “We take the medicine. The risk of transmission from a scratch, especially one that didn’t bleed much, is extremely low. You can’t think the worst. And no matter what happens after these twenty–eight days, I am here. With you.”

I don’t really remember the drive home. It’s a blank space of numb shock. When we arrive, I stumble out of the car and up the stairs on legs that feel like water. I don’t see anyone, don’t greet anyone. I go straight to my room, collapse onto the bed, and pull the duvet over my head, wrapping myself into a tight, shivering ball, trying to disappear.

Cassian’s POV

I sit downstairs in the living room, the weight of what just happened pressing down on me like a physical force. I tried to be her rock at the hospital, but now, alone, the fear I held back surges forward. My hands are cold.

Mikhail and grandpa are watching me, their expressions shifting from confusion to deep concern. The cheerful chaos of the planned dinner is a distant memory.

“What’s happened?”

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