The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 90

**Before Rain Touches Earth Memories Return With Gentle Warmth by Eli Dane Crest**

**Chapter 90**

**Gemma**

“Why in the world would she toss your phone into a fish tank?” Cassian’s strikingly handsome face contorts in confusion, his brow furrowing deeply.

It infuriates me that, even in this moment of tension, I can’t help but notice how attractive he is.

With a heavy sigh escaping my lips, I respond, “I recorded her confessing that she framed me, and she didn’t want you to hear it.”

“If you want me to uncover what she’s really up to, I can check Reyna’s texts. But for now, lay off the insults. You don’t need to be all sassy just to make her look bad,” he retorts, his tone a mix of irritation and concern.

A dry, humorless laugh bubbles up from my throat. “Sure, you will. I knew you wouldn’t believe me, no matter what evidence I presented.”

Reyna doesn’t even have any actual proof, yet Cassian had sprinted upstairs to confront me, gripping my arm so tightly that it left a red mark.

That action alone speaks volumes about his true feelings. His instinctive response is to rush to her defense.

He dashed to Reyna without a second thought, but when it comes to me, all he ever seems to muster is skepticism.

Does he even realize how he treats me?

My anger quickly morphs into a familiar sadness. I’ve navigated this emotional rollercoaster too many times before. It’s always the same.

I brace myself for another round of accusations, expecting him to raise his voice at me again. But to my surprise, he remains silent.

I glance up, confusion washing over me. Why isn’t he hurling accusations my way like he usually does?

This time… this time Cassian hesitates. He meets my gaze, and for a fleeting moment, I catch a glimpse of something in his eyes—sadness.

Wait… is he genuinely sad?

Ugh. I don’t want to delve into this anymore. It feels utterly pointless.

Without uttering another word, I pivot and exit the room. I can’t bear to share the same space with him any longer; it’s driving me insane.

The remainder of the day passes in silence between us.

He stays home from work—I can’t fathom why—but I act as if he doesn’t exist. The house is expansive; surely there are corners where I can avoid him.

Yet, fate has other plans, and we find ourselves face to face again at dinner.

We sit at opposite ends of the long dining table, the staff bustling around us, placing dishes laden with food before us. I concentrate on my plate, resolutely ignoring his presence.

Cassian clears his throat—a telltale sign that he’s about to initiate one of his absurd attempts to break the ice.

Before he can utter a word, I swiftly set down my fork and nod to the servant, signaling that I’ve finished. Then, without a glance back, I rise and leave the dining room.

I make a beeline for the guest room, seeking refuge.

*****

**Cassian**

The servant announces that dinner is ready, and I know Gemma is on her way to the dining room, deliberately avoiding me. Yet, I can’t let this opportunity slip away; I need to see her.

“Don’t mess this up again,” I silently chide myself.

As Gemma sits down to eat, she doesn’t cast a single glance my way. Just as I’m about to speak up, she abruptly stands and walks out.

It’s as if I’m entranced—I can’t find the words to call her back.

Later, after my shower, I return to our master bedroom, and the stillness feels eerie.

In the kitchen, I spot a sandwich and a glass of milk waiting for me on the table. The sandwich is a chaotic mess—crusts left on, vegetables and ham haphazardly thrown together. It looks utterly unappetizing. My appetite vanishes, and I decide to whip up some pasta instead.

“Mr. Blackwell made this for you—”

The servant’s words are cut short by a cough from Cassian, who has appeared behind me.

Wait… what? He actually made this sloppy sandwich? No way. I quickly dismiss that thought.

I grab a pot and turn on the stove.

“Ma’am, what are you doing? I can cook for you,” the servant insists.

“No need, thanks. I’ll make pasta myself,” I reply with a polite smile.

Cassian’s low voice interrupts from behind me. “Make some for me too.”

I can’t help but let out a mocking laugh. “Why? Don’t you have hands? Make it yourself.”

The kitchen staff freezes, their eyes wide with apprehension. No one dares to speak. One brave soul sneaks a glance at Cassian, clearly worried he might explode.

After all, no one wants to incur the wrath of Lord Douchebag of Mafia Land.

“Until we’re officially divorced, you still have a wife’s duties to fulfill,” Cassian states, his tone firm.

“Cooking is only a wife’s duty?” I shoot back, incredulous.

He frowns, a hint of annoyance flickering across his face. “If you still want a divorce, do as I say.” With that, he strides out of the kitchen.

I stand there, seething with rage, glaring at his retreating figure.

“Jerk,” I mutter under my breath, the word laced with bitterness.