The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 412

Chapter 412

Gemma’s POV

The cool night air at the hotel entrance is a relief after the stuffy, perfumed heat of the ballroom. I’m perfectly sober, so I take the keys from a slightly tipsy Zina, sliding into the driver’s seat of her car. Wesley and Molly pile into the back, and Mikhail, after a final word with the event coordinator, heads for his own vehicle.

I’ve just pulled the door open when a force slams into me from the side.

Instinct is faster than thought. My arms fly around my stomach, cradling the precious, unseen life within, as I’m driven back a step against the cold metal of the car. A heart–stopping second later, I realize I’m not under attack. I’m being clung to. The scent of expensive cologne is buried under the sharp, sour tang of whiskey. Cassian.

flook up to see Liam jogging out after him, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated mortification. He meets my eyes, smacks his own forehead, and then, to my utter disbelief, pulls out his phone, aiming it at us. He’s recording this.

My friends in the car are silent spectators, offering no rescue. I let out a long–suffering sigh and plant my hands on Cassian’s shoulders, trying to lever the dead weight of him off me. “Cassian. How much did you drink? Can you stand up?”

He’s boneless, a tall, stubborn puddle of Armani–clad misery melted against me. I push, but it’s like trying to move a marble column. Frustration wins. I tilt my head back, wrinkling my nose. “Ugh. You smell like a distillery. It’s revolting. Get off.”

Like a switch has been flipped, the unresponsive man jolts. He actually wobbles back half a step, his expression one of dazed, genuine contrition. “I’m… I’m sorry.”

The collective stunned silence from the car and Liam is palpable. Cassian Blackwell, apologizing for being malodorous? The world has truly tilted off its axis.

Seeing the gap he’s created, I seize my chance and duck to slide into the driver’s seat. But before I can pull the door shut, his hand shoots out, wrapping around my wrist. It’s not a harsh grip, but it’s unyielding.

My patience, worn thin by the evening’s revelations and confrontations, finally snaps. “Cassian! What do you want?” My voice is sharp in the quiet night. It’s late. I’m tired. I just want to go home.

He blinks, his gaze struggling to focus on my face. “Gemma,” he slurs, the words thick. “Don’t go… don’t go to Florisdale.”

The plea, raw and unfiltered, hits me with unexpected force. I stare at him, my breath catching. Is this whole, pathetic display just to stop me from getting on a plane?

From the backseat, Zina gasps. “Gemma? You’re going to Florisdale?” Her voice is laced with shock and a hint of betrayal. Why didn’t I know?`

The secret is out, spilled by a drunken man. I give a tight nod, not looking away from Cassian’s hazy eyes. “Yes. I’m going with Mikhail.”

Zina’s hand flies to her mouth. I can practically hear her thoughts whirling: She’s leaving? With Mikhail? Is this it?

Liam steps forward, his earlier amusement gone, replaced by sober concern. “Gemma, are you serious? You’re really leaving?”

“Yes.” The word is flat, final.

He frowns, glancing from his drunken friend back to me. “If you go… what about him?” He jerks his chin toward Cassian.

The question ignites a spark of old anger. “What about him?” I counter, my voice cold. “I’m not his keeper. He won’t cease to exist if I board a flight.” I remember the icy distances, the silent dinners, the years of emotional solitude. Where was this desperate attachment then?

I try to pull my wrist free to get fully into the car, but Cassian uses my motion to clamber inelegantly into the passenger seat instead, his large frame folding awkwardly into the space. “Cassian, what are you doing?”

He leans his head back against the seat, eyes closed. “I’m -drunk. I feel terrible. Just… let me sit.”

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