The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 512

Chapter 512

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Cassian’s POV

The moment the door closes behind

Gemma and Zina, the strained, watchful atmosphere in the villa hardens into something else. Mikhail’s casual smirk evaporates. He turns to me, his eyes flat and cold.

“Have your people found him yet?” he asks. No name needed. William’s brother.

“We have him,” I confirm, my voice low. “He was trying to arrange passage out of the country. My team and yours

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intercepted him twelve hours ago.” I’d been waiting for an opening, a moment when Gemma was safely occupied and out of the house. She’s been a prisoner of these walls, and so have I. Now, with Zina providing a distraction, the window is

open.

Mikhail pushes himself up from the sofa, the movement fluid despite the cane. “Good. Let’s go. Time for a conversation.”

In some arenas, Mikhail’s expertise far exceeds mine. My operations, however ruthless, have always existed within a framework of rules, even if I bent them. His world, forged in foreign conflicts, operates on a different, starker code. He’s geen more death than life. Men like our 4:0

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target aren’t people to him; they’re

vermin to be exterminated.

My gaze flicks to the bandages still visible beneath his shirt. “Are you sure you’re up for this?” I ask. “I don’t need Gemma blaming me if you reopen any of your stitches or lose an organ.”

He lets out a derisive snort. “Noob!” he says, the word dripping with contempt. “Do I look like you?”

There’s no point in arguing, the target awaits. He heads for the door, and we don’t speak again as we leave the quiet villa and get into the waiting car, the engine purring to life.

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Zina’s POV

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The restaurant is incredible, panelled with dark wood, ambient lighting, and the soft murmur of other diners. It blows any place back home out of the water. A server leads us to a beautiful private room and hands us leather–bound menus.

“Order absolutely anything,” I tell Gemma, grinning. “Jeremy’s treat!”

He had insisted on it, feeling guilty for being so wrapped up in his family drama. I’m more than happy to spend his money.

Gemma gives a small, distant smile and orders just two simple dishes. I add a few more of the most exotic–sounding things.09

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to the cart. Once we’re alone, I lean forward, propping my chin on my hands. “Okay, spill. Really. How have you been? I feel like I’ve been living in a soap opera and completely lost track of you.”

She blinks, as if pulling her thoughts from far away. “I… met the Bernards. My family. They’re very kind. If I decide to… reconnect, it would be a good thing.”

I stare at her, my jaw practically hitting the table. “The Bernards? You’re a

Bernard?” How did I not know this?

I’ve been so buried in Jenkins family nonsense I missed a seismic shift in my best friend’s life!

She explains, her voice flat, like she’s 14:09

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reciting a medical report. “My mother and Daxton Bernard… I’m his biological child. Not Charles Nelson’s.”

It takes me a second to untangle it. “So you’ve always been a Bernard? Why didn’t your mom take you back sooner?” The question bursts out, edged with anger on her behalf. “She just let you struggle all those years?” I think of Wendy sick in the hospital, of Gemma scrambling, of the desperate marriage to Càssian. If she’d had the Bernard name and resources.

behind her then…

“My mom got pregnant with me by accident,” Gemma says, her gaze fixed on the tablecloth. “It was a… dark chapter for her. She never wanted to revisit it.” 14:09

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I see it then—the pain in her eyes isn’t anger at Wendy. It’s a deep, aching sadness. A protective grief for her mother’s suffering. She doesn’t resent the secret; she mourns the reason for it.

My heart aches for her. I reach across the table instinctively to squeeze her hand.

The moment my skin touches hers, she yanks her hand back as if burned.

!

It happens so fast, so sharply, it leaves me stunned. That’s the second time today she’s recoiled from my touch. Gemma

has never been like this with me. We’ve shared fries, drinks, hugged through crises. Something is very, very wrong.

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I’m just about to ask her, point–blank, what’s going on, when the door opens and the server arrives with our first courses. Gemma’s mask slides back into place instantly. She gives a bright, brittle smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Let’s eat,” she says, picking up her fork.

I watch her, my concern now a quiet alarm bell ringing in my chest. I decide to bide my time. Maybe I’m imagining it.

Throughout the meal, I try to engage her in the old ways. “Gemma, you have to try this crab cake, it’s unbelievable!” I spear one with my fork and offer it to her directly across the table, our usual habit.

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Instead of leaning forward to take a bite, she freezes. Then, carefully, she uses her own fork to take a crab cake from the shared platter and places it on her own plate. “I’ll have one here, thanks,” she says, avoiding my gaze.

The weirdness solidifies. Okay, that was deliberate.

I decide on a little test. I look at the angel hair pasta on her plate, coated in a fragrant truffle sauce. “That looks so good,” I say, making my voice casual. “Can I try a bite?” I start to reach my fork toward her plate.

“Hold on!” Her hand flies out, not to stop myfork, but to physically block the path:09

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between her plate and me. Her voice is sharp, urgent.

I stop, fork hovering, completely confused. “What? It’s the same pasta.”

“I… it is,” she says, her cheeks flushing. She seems to realize how strange she’s being. “It’s just… I’ve already touched it.”

“So? We’ve shared a million bites before. I’ll just take a tomato,” I press, aiming my fork at a cherry tomato on the edge of her plate, calling her bluff.

She shifts her plate an inch away, her body language screaming no. “Please, Zina. Just… eat from your own plate.”

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I look at her, at the genuine, almost panicked plea in her eyes. This isn’t her being fussy. This is fear. She is actively, physically preventing me from sharing her food or touching anything she’s touched.

The realization settles over me, cold and heavy. Something has happened. Something that has made her view her own body, her own saliva, her own everything, as a source of danger. To me.

I slowly pull my fork back and settle into my chair, my appetite gone. I don’t ask again. I just watch her pick at her food, every movement careful and isolated, as if she’s dining inside a bubble she’s too terrified to let me pierce.

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