The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 513

Chapter 513

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Gemma’s POV

I feel a wave of helpless frustration. “Just… stick to your own plate, okay?” My voice is tighter than I intend. “Please don’t touch mine.” I’ve used my fork on everything here. The medical pamphlets said transmission through saliva is theoretically possible with open sores, but the fear is a live wire, short–circuiting all logic. I can’t risk it.

Zina’s cheerful expression wilts. She sits back with a grumpy pout, and a pang of sadness hits me, sharp and clean. I’ve

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hurt her. But I don’t know how to explain without unleashing the horror. So I say nothing.

The earlier confrontation has killed what little appetite I had. I just want to finish, take my medication in private, and retreat. I wipe my mouth and stand, ready to go.

A server enters our private room then, holding a bottle of expensive–looking red wine. “We didn’t order that,” I say, my tone flat.

“Compliments of the gentlemen at the table by the window,” he says smoothly, setting it down with a flourish.

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I glance past him. A group of loud, boisterous men in flashy suits is watching us. One gives a sleazy, exaggerated wave. Revulsion curdles in my stomach. “We don’t need it. Please take it back.”

The server hesitates, caught between

orders.

“My friend is pregnant,” Zina jumps in, her voice firm, coming to my rescue. “She can’t drink. Thanks, but no thanks.”

The mention of pregnancy seems to break the stalemate. The server murmurs an apology and takes the bottle away.

“Ugh,” Zina mutters as the door closes.

The entitlement. Do they think throwing.

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money around makes them irresistible?” She’s seen them too–all bluster and bad

taste, textbook nouveaux riches.

“Let’s just ignore them,” I say, grabbing my bag, the weight of the medication inside a constant, heavy reminder. I need to find a bathroom.

But as we step out of the private room and head for the exit, the group from the window intercepts us, moving with a clumsy, confident swagger. The ringleader, a man with a thick neck and gelled hair, blocks our path. “Ladies! Wait up.”

Zina eyes him like he’s something she stepped in. “What do you want?”

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“My friend, he made a mistake,” Thick–Neck says, spreading his hands in a mock–apologetic gesture. “Sending wine to a pregnant lady! Not cool. Let us make it up to you. Drinks? On us. A proper apology.”

My patience, already tissue–thin, evaporates. “No, thank you. We’re leaving.” I try to step around him.

He moves, too, his hand shooting out- not for me, but he catches the strap of my bag, which is slung over my shoulder. He gives it a clumsy, forceful tug. The strap slips, and the bag tumbles to the floor, its contents scattering across the polished tiles with a clatter.

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“Oh, shit! Sorry, sorry!” he exclaims, not sounding sorry at all. He bends down, making a show of helping. “Let me get that for you!”

Panic seizes me. My eyes lock on the small, unlabeled prescription bottle that has rolled away from the main pile, coming to rest near his foot. I dive for it, my movements frantic.

His eyes follow the bottle, then snap to my face as my fingers close around. it. He stares, his expression shifting from performative concern to genuine, dawning confusion. He reads the label I tried so hard to keep hidden. His brow furrows.

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My heart is a wild drum in my ears. I shove the bottle back into the bag’s depths, my face burning with a mixture of terror and shame. “Let’s go!” I hiss at Zina, my voice urgent.

This time, he doesn’t stop us. He just straightens up, watching us hurry away.

We’re almost at the door, freedom in sight, when his voice rings out, loud and deliberately carrying across the now–quiet restaurant. “Damn. That woman’s got. AIDS. What a fucking downer. Gotta go wash my hands. Don’t want to catch anything.”

The words land like a physical blow. Zina,

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who was a step ahead of me, stops dead. Her entire body goes rigid. The frown on her face is so deep, so furious, it looks like

it could crack stone.

I grab her sleeve, my grip desperate. “Zina, please, let’s just go.” I can’t handle a scene. If she turns around, if she confronts him, the truth about the medication will be dragged into the light.

I can’t bear it.

She closes her eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath. I see her trying to calm herself, to let the insult roll off. Too many idiots in the world. Don’t let them

get to you.

But the man isn’t finished. Even seated 4:10

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again, his voice carries, oily and

malicious. “Must’ve slept with half the city. Looks clean on the outside, but she’s trash on the inside. Diseased trash.”

That does it.

Zina’s eyes snap open. All attempts at

calm incinerate in an instant. Without a

word, she turns on her heel and marches back toward their table. I watch, frozen, as she snatches an empty wine bottle from a nearby server’s station.

She stops in front of Thick–Neck, holding the bottle like a club, her glare lethal. “Say that one more time,” she grinds out. “You spread that lie again. See what happens.”

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His whole table is startled into silence for a beat. Then they recover, their bravado returning. “What’s your problem?” one of his friends sneers. “Your friend’s got AIDS. You’re with her, so you’re probably infected too. Get lost, you’re both filthy!”

The word ‘AIDS‘ seems to detonate something in Zina. She slams the bottle down on their table with a crash that makes silverware jump. “I dare you to repeat that!”

They started this. They harass us, and when we reject them, they make up vile lies? They should look in a mirror!

A waiter rushes over, alarmed by the escalating noise. He tries to gently pry the

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