The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 462

Chapter 462
Cassian's POV 

Meanwhile, I’m out buying breakfast, navigating a foreign supermarket with a focus on things that look fresh, healthy, easy. I assume she’s still at the hospital, sitting vigil by Mikhail’s bedside. The thought is a familiar, dull ache I choose to ignore. I return to the villa, arms laden with bags, expecting quiet.

The sight that greets me is entirely unexpected. She’s at the dining table, but she’s not eating or resting. She’s hunched over her laptop, the blue glow of the screen highlighting the intense concentration on her face. Her voice, low and clear, cuts through the morning calm.

“Team A, proceed with the link I sent you. Team B, keep reinforcing the firewall I set up.”

The tone is all business—crisp, authoritative, methodical. She’s in the zone. Deep in her work. The transformation is instant and complete. This is the Gemma I rarely got to see during our marriage—the formidable strategist, the commander of her own digital realm.

I decide not to interrupt. I move silently into the kitchen, setting the bags down with exaggerated care. Yesterday’s culinary disaster is a fresh humiliation. Today, I opt for something that cannot possibly explode, burn, or require any skill beyond chopping. A fruit salad. It feels like a safe, if pathetic, offering.

I assemble it meticulously, keeping the noise to a minimum. When I emerge, bowl in hand, I see her posture has relaxed slightly. The crisis, whatever it was, seems to have passed.

“Have you managed to resolve the issue?” I ask, setting the bowl on the table near her elbow.

She nods, but her expression remains clouded. “Yes. But I’m not sure how much company data was compromised before I locked it down.” Even in victory, there’s the burden of potential loss. She contained the breach, but the damage was done in the hours she wasn’t there. The responsibility weighs on her; I can see it in the tight line of her shoulders.

“You should eat something,” I say, nudging the bowl closer.

She reaches for the fork, but her phone, lying next to the laptop, vibrates insistently. She puts the fork down with a sigh and walks away to take the call, her voice dropping as she moves into the living room. I watch, a familiar frustration simmering. The meal, the moment of quiet I’d tried to create, is shattered.

She returns a minute later, already grabbing her bag. “I need to go to the hospital. Don’t wait for me for lunch.” Her explanation is quick: Mikhail called. Her reputation in the security field, burnished by Mr. Smith, has attracted interest. A corporate executive wants to meet, a potential lucrative side job. And she wants to check on Mikhail, to ensure he hasn’t actually discharged himself against medical advice.

I don’t hesitate. I grab my coat from the back of a chair. “I’ll take you.”

She doesn’t argue, just walks out ahead of me. A small victory. I notice her habit, developed since our divorce, of heading straight for the back seat of the car, leaving the passenger seat pointedly empty. It’s a silent rebuke I’ve grown accustomed to. As I open the driver’s door, I remember the fruit salad. I lean back in, grab the bowl, and hand it to her through the open rear door.

She looks surprised, then accepts it. “You need more vitamins. Plenty of fruit,” I say, my eyes on the road as I pull out, stating it as simple fact, not negotiation.

In the rearview mirror, I watch her pick up the fork and take a tentative bite. Then another. She eats quietly as we drive. I know it’s not a culinary feat—it’s chopped fruit—but the fact that she’s eating it, that I provided it, feels significant.

Her eyes meet mine in the mirror. “It’s pretty good,” she says, her tone carefully neutral, not overly enthusiastic.

A stupid, disproportionate warmth spreads through my chest. My face must give me away because she quickly adds, “There’s no need to make it every day.”

The deflation is instant. But then she relents, perhaps seeing my expression. “Okay, but how about once a week?”

It’s a concession. A tiny, scheduled allowance for my presence. My mood soars again, embarrassingly volatile. “Great,” I say, too quickly. “I’ll make sure to switch up the fruit every week.” I sound like an overeager caterer. She lets out a soft chuckle, a sound I haven’t heard in too long, and looks out the window.

At the hospital, she spots Linda in the lobby but doesn’t stop, her focus on her business meeting with Mikhail. I stay in the car, the engine idling. The quiet gives me space to think, to deal with my own world. I call Adam.

His update is brisk. “Mr. Blackwell, you have three flights scheduled for next week.”

“Cancel them,” I say without thinking. My schedule is here now. Where she is.

Adam, ever-prepared, doesn’t miss a beat. “There’s a project at Blackwell Heavy Industries requiring your review.”

“Have Liam handle it.”

“Mr. Cooper is also in Florisdale at the moment.”

That gives me pause. Liam is here? Without my knowledge? A flicker of irritation mixes with surprise. “I’ll call him,” I say, ending the call with Adam and immediately dialing Liam.

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