The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 459

Chapter 459
Gemma's POV 

Meanwhile, after leaving the hospital, my plan is simple: find a modest, anonymous hotel. A clean room, a lock on the door, and blessed solitude. Cassian, predictably, has other plans. He insists on taking me to his house here.

“That house has never had any other woman in it,” he states as we stand on the curb, his driver waiting. He says it like it’s a major concession, a peace offering. “Only me.”

I pause, genuinely surprised that he thinks this would be a point of contention for me. But then a treacherous, petty part of my mind whispers: And maybe it is. A little. The ghost of Reyna, of all the implied histories, lingers. “And how do I know you’re telling the truth?” The challenge slips out, more weary than accusatory.

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Then I’ll buy you a new one.”

I’m left utterly speechless. The sheer, absurd extravagance of the statement is so quintessentially him that it short-circuits my argument. In the end, exhaustion wins. I let him load my suitcase into the car.

The house is in a quiet, manicured suburb where wealth whispers instead of shouts. It’s serene, picture-perfect, and feels a million miles from the sterile anxiety of the hospital. He rolls my suitcase over the threshold, and the moment we’re inside, a deep, bone-aching weariness crashes over me.

A shower helps. I emerge feeling slightly more human, wrapped in one of the plush towels he’d laid out. The living room, which had been pristine when we arrived, is now even neater. He’s been moving around, straightening things that were already straight. The place is spotless; he’s clearly had a service maintaining it.

“Get some rest,” he says, his voice quieter than usual. “I’ll let you know when dinner’s ready.”

I give him a skeptical look, unable to help myself. “You can cook?” In three years of marriage, I never saw him so much as boil an egg. The kitchen was my domain, or the chef’s.

He hesitates, a flicker of something almost like embarrassment crossing his face. “I can handle a sandwich.”

I glance toward the kitchen. “The food in here is probably expired by now. If it hasn’t turned to dust.” He hasn’t been here in years.

“There’s a supermarket nearby,” he says, already grabbing his keys from the console. “I’ll go grab some fresh stuff.”

I’m too drained to protest. “Fine.”

The moment the door shuts behind him, the silence feels different. Less charged. My phone buzzes—a call from home. I’d forgotten to set up international roaming, and this is the reminder. It’s Jessica.

“Gemma, there’s a new project alert on the dashboard. It’s tagged for Florisdale. You should check if it’s near you.”

I pull out my laptop, power it on. The VPN connects to our server back home. I pull up the project details. Sure enough, the client is located right here in the city. Three blocks from this very neighborhood.

“I saw it when I logged in this morning,” Jessica continues. “I had a quick chat with the client. Everything seems above board, but it’s small potatoes.”

I usually vet every project myself, especially new clients. I’m paranoid about security, about walking my team into anything messy. Jessica stepped in because I was in the air.

I scan the brief. It’s a straightforward digital trace. Locating an IP address, mapping some data flow. Nothing that should require a physical meeting. It’s clean, local, and the fee, while not huge, is decent for the likely workload.

I stare at him, this man who used to have staff for everything. A slow, incredulous smile threatens to break through my weariness. I raise an eyebrow. “Are you sure you know how to do the dishes?”

The memory surfaces, crisp and ridiculous. It was at Blackwell Manor. We were in the middle of one of our epic, silent wars. I don’t even remember the cause—some perceived slight, a cold remark left to fester. What I remember is his blatant rudeness at the dinner table, even in front of Donovan. The old man, fed up, had pointed a stern finger toward the kitchen. “You. Dishes. Now.”

Within minutes, the peaceful manor was filled with the explosive symphony of shattering china. I went to investigate, thinking it was a tantrum, a deliberate act of destruction. But no. He stood there at the sink, wearing yellow rubber gloves that were comically large, looking utterly bewildered as another plate slipped from his soapy, gloved grasp and exploded on the tile floor. He genuinely didn’t know how. The gloves, meant to protect his precious hands, made everything slippery. If Blackwell Manor hadn’t had a truly obscene amount of dishware, we’d have been eating off napkins the next day. After that, he was permanently banned from kitchen clean-up. The sound of breaking plates is uniquely jarring, and I have no desire to hear it again.

So, standing here now, in his pristine, silent villa with no staff in sight, I know better. Scrambled eggs are one thing. Washing up is a whole other battlefield.

“I’ve got this,” Cassian says again, his body a solid wall between me and the kitchen doorway. The insistence in his voice is almost… tender. But I’m not buying it.

The more he blocks me, the more my suspicion grows. It coils in my stomach. “Are you hiding something from me?” I don’t move, just hold his gaze.

“I’m not.”

“Then move aside. I want to see for myself.”

“No.” His jaw tightens. “I don’t want you in the kitchen.”