The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 460

Chapter 460
Gemma's POV 

The protectiveness is weirdly sweet, but my instincts are screaming. Something is wrong in there.

Finally, I raise my hands in a gesture of surrender. “Fine. You win. I’ll stay out. Go ahead, wash your dishes.” I hand him my plate with exaggerated care and turn, walking slowly back toward the living room sofa. I can feel his relief like a physical wave behind me.

He thinks he’s safe. He starts to gather his own plate from the table.

That’s when I spin on my heel and bolt. It’s two quick strides, a twist of the handle, and I yank the kitchen door open.

A billow of grey smoke greets me, carrying the acrid scent of something very burnt. The kitchen is a disaster zone. A pot sits in the sink, its bottom blackened and ruined. The trash can is overflowing with what looks like several attempts at scrambled eggs, all charred into crispy, inedible lumps. The air is hazy.

And then I see it. The damning evidence, not even hidden. A branded takeout bag, crumpled but recognizable, sits on the counter next to the stove.

I pick it up, my eyebrow arching as I read the label of a local bistro. I turn slowly to face him.

“So,” I say, my voice dripping with amused realization. “You ordered takeout.”

Cassian’s face, usually a mask of cool composure, floods with a deep, unmistakable red. He looks at the floor, the ceiling, anywhere but at me. He’s holding the two plates awkwardly, caught in the act.

I can’t help it. A laugh bubbles up, breaking through my frustration. It’s all so absurd.

“I just didn’t want you to think I was completely hopeless,” he mutters, the admission dragged out of him.

He’d tried. That much is clear from the carnage. While I was dead asleep, he’d attempted to conquer the stove and failed spectacularly. At home, any ‘cooking’ he did involved a chef prepping everything. He thought he could wing it. The evidence suggests he nearly set off the smoke alarms. If I hadn’t been so exhausted, I would have smelled it. The neighbors probably did.

Looking at the pathetic, embarrassed figure he cuts, holding the plates like alien artifacts, my anger dissolves. I walk over and pat his shoulder, a teasing grin on my face. “Next time, try a different place. This takeout isn’t exactly top-notch.” The credit I was mentally preparing to give him for the eggs evaporates. Now, I just have the fun of knowing he tried—and failed—to deceive me.

Shaking my head, I leave him to his smoky shame and retreat to the living room. I need normalcy. I turn on the TV for background noise and pull out my phone to text Jessica about the Florisdale project.

Her reply is quick. [The client is okay with an online deal, but they insist on meeting you in person first.]

I frown. [Isn’t that basically the same as an in-person meeting?] It feels like a contradiction, or a power play.

[Should we still take it on?] Jessica’s doubt mirrors my own.

“Quinn,” I say, forcing calm into my tone. “Have you been drinking a lot?”

He doesn’t answer. The silence stretches, feeding my frustration and fear. He’s wasting away in there, and for what? For me? The guilt is a sour taste in my mouth.

“Quinn,” I begin again, my voice firmer, layered with the genuine care and respect I’ve always had for him. “I’ve always seen you as someone remarkable. Your talent, your drive, your integrity—those are qualities I’ve always admired. I don’t want to see you lose that. Your life isn’t over just because I’m not in it.”

The words hang in the digital space between continents. I imagine them hitting him, a sobering splash of cold water.

“Do you really think that if I don’t love you, you’re no longer a great person? That you’re not worthy of love?” I press on, my heart aching. “You are exceptional. And you will find someone who is right for you. But right now, Quinn… look at what you’re doing.”

I can almost see him, surrounded by bottles, hearing my voice from thousands of miles away. I need him to understand that his value was never derived from my affection. It came from him. From the man he built himself to be.

For a long, painful moment, there is only the sound of his breathing. Then, it evens out. When he speaks again, his voice is different. Cleared of some fog, quieter, but grounded.

“Gemma…” he says, and there’s a dawning clarity in that single word. “I get it now.”