The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 94

**TITLE: Before Rain Touches Earth Memories Return With Gentle Warmth by Eli Dane Crest 94**

**CONTENT: Chapter 94**

**Cassian**

“I don’t need you to survive, and I don’t need your charity. I’m capable of making it on my own.”

Gemma’s words from earlier today reverberate in my mind, like an unwelcome echo that refuses to fade. The heat of my anger had left me speechless, and now I find myself grappling with a mix of regret and frustration. My inner voice chastises me for being so oblivious to Gemma’s tastes, especially when it comes to something as simple as food. How could I have overlooked her preferences so completely?

Alright, I’ll admit it—I messed up.

I want to mend things, to bridge the gap that has formed between us, but it feels as if Gemma’s hurt has deepened, and that only intensifies my own feelings of helplessness.

With Gemma not at home, lingering in the house feels pointless. The silence is a stark reminder of her absence, and it gnaws at me.

Two days have slipped by since my last visit to the warehouse, and now my desk is buried under a mountain of neglected paperwork. My assistant, ever diligent, sends over the meeting schedule for the day, and I glance at it briefly.

1/5
11:55

Seated in the expansive conference room, I find myself in the middle of a video call with one of our overseas partners, a rival mafia family from Europe. They supply my operations with firearms, making them a crucial ally.

As the call progresses, the sharp ping of a notification from my phone breaks through my concentration. I dismiss it, prioritizing the conversation at hand. But the notifications keep chiming, one after another, loud enough to disrupt even the most focused discussion.

I casually glance at my phone, but my heart sinks when I spot the name “Gemma” in the text preview. A wave of anxiety washes over me.

Without a moment’s hesitation, I unlock my phone, my fingers trembling slightly.

My fists clench involuntarily, and my jaw tightens as I view the photo Rhett Whitaker has sent. Anger surges through me as I open Gemma’s message thread, my frustration boiling over as I type furiously.

“Where are you?”

Minutes tick by in agonizing silence, with no response from her. Each passing moment only amplifies my irritation. Finally, I pick up my phone again, my eyes scanning the screen. Still no reply. My blood begins to boil.

11:55

“Where are you? Bring dinner to the office. I’ve got to work late.” My fingers fly across the screen, each word infused with my fury. After sending the follow-up message, I can’t resist the urge to check my phone every few minutes, like a moth drawn to a flame, desperately awaiting her reply.

I pride myself on my dedication and responsibility at work. I’m not the type to zone out during meetings, let alone obsessively check my phone.

The members of my crew in the conference room exchange puzzled glances, but they wisely keep their mouths shut. They’ve learned over time that when I’m in a foul mood, it’s best to tread lightly. My expression alone speaks volumes.

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