The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 451

Chapter 451
Gemma's POV

A sharp spike of irritation hits me. So I’m just his babysitter now? The thought is petty and immediate. But on second thought… that’s exactly what I am. Mr. Smith’s minder, now Mikhail’s emotional bouncer. The role is getting old.

Stepping into this is a guaranteed way to make Linda hate me more than she probably already does. But he asked. With his eyes averted and his voice that particular blend of weary and commanding, he asked. I have no choice.

I walk over, my expression carefully neutral. “Ms. Xander,” I say, my voice polite but distant. “Let me walk you out.”

Linda looks from Mikhail’s turned back to me. She understands the finality in his posture. Staying would only harden his resentment. With a last, devastated look at his profile, she nods silently and follows me out of the room.

The walk downstairs is quiet, suffocating. In the hospital lobby, I try for basic human decency. “Do you have a place to stay, Ms. Xander?”

She nods, not looking at me. “Yes. A hotel.”

I hail a taxi from the line outside. As it pulls up, Linda turns to me. Her eyes are red-rimmed but sharp, searching. “Gemma,” she says, her voice low and direct. “You and Mikhail aren’t a couple, are you?”

The question catches me off guard. It’s not jealous, exactly. It’s a probe, an attempt to map the territory she’s just been ejected from. I don’t owe her an answer. I keep a bland, polite smile firmly in place. “Take care, Ms. Xander.” I hold the taxi door open for her. She hesitates, then slides in without another word.

The moment the cab pulls away, my carefully maintained composure snaps. I storm back upstairs, anger boiling over. He did that on purpose! Used me as a human shield against his ex-girlfriend’s tears! This infuriating, manipulative—

I shove the door to his room open, ready to let him have it.

And stop.

He’s asleep. Deeply asleep. One of my hands is still clenched in a fist at my side, the other falls slack. He’s lying on his side, one arm curled under his head, my phone still loosely gripped in his other hand. The harsh, anxious lines of his face have smoothed out. In sleep, he looks younger, peaceful. Vulnerable in a way he never allows when awake.

My anger deflates, leaking out of me like air from a punctured tire. He has brain surgery tomorrow, I remind myself sternly. The confrontation can wait. Linda can wait.

I move quietly to the bedside. Gently, I pry my phone from his slack fingers. He doesn’t stir. I retreat to the small sofa in the corner and sink into it, the fight gone out of me.

Watching him sleep, I’m puzzled. Wasn’t he the one who used to drown himself in liquor over her? The man who carried that torch for years? Now he’s all cold finality and polite apologies. I can’t help but think it’s just pride. A man too stubborn to admit he still cares, so he pushes her away with both hands. It’s the only explanation that makes sense with the brooding, dramatic Mikhail I think I know.

I must have dozed off on that uncomfortable couch. The next thing I know, harsh morning light and the rustle of nurses preparing for the day’s rounds jolt me awake. I blink, disoriented.

The first thing I see is Mikhail, already awake, propped up in bed. And he’s looking right at me with those infuriatingly teasing eyes.

Before I can even form a ‘good morning,’ he picks up The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn from his bedside and tosses it toward me. I fumble, catching it awkwardly against my chest.

“Sleepyhead,” he says, a faint smirk on his lips. “Read it to me when I get out of surgery.”

The casual command, the assumption of a ‘when,’ steals my breath for a second. My heart gives a hard, painful thump against my ribs.

Before I can reply, the nursing team arrives in efficient formation. They check his vitals, confirm his identity, begin the process of transferring him to a gurney. I stand there, useless, clutching the book. I watch as they wheel him out of the room, his gaze holding mine until the door swings shut between us.

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