The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 463

Chapter 463
Harry’s POV 

The elevator hums its ascent, a smooth, silent box carrying us upward. Nancy stands beside me, her gaze thoughtful as she studies my profile.

“Are you really sure Gemma is your aunt?” she asks, her voice laced with that same lingering skepticism she’s had since I first showed her the file.

I nod, the motion stiff. “I already showed you the DNA report. It’s conclusive.” The words feel heavy, a truth I’m still grappling with myself.

She raises a delicate eyebrow. “I’m just surprised. Gemma looks so young. It’s hard to believe there might not be some… mistake.” She’s not trying to be difficult, just practical. The mental image of Gemma—vibrant, sharp, independent—doesn’t easily slot into the ‘aunt’ category next to someone like me.

“It’s about family hierarchy, not age,” I explain, though it sounds feeble even to my own ears. Even if she were a child, the bloodline makes it so. The Bernard family logic is rigid and unforgiving.

“I get it,” Nancy says, shrugging lightly. “I’ve just never seen a family situation quite like this.” Her own world is orderly, predictable. This tangled web of old sins and newfound relations is foreign territory.

Then she poses the question that’s been gnawing at the edge of my own confidence. “What if Gemma doesn’t believe it? Or what if she believes it but doesn’t want to come back to the Bernard family? What will you do then?”

A sharp sigh escapes me before I can stop it. The pressure of this mission, the weight of Meredith’s expectant silence over the phone, it’s all a bit much. “You’re really full of questions today,” I mutter, the irritation slipping out.

She immediately stiffens. “Well, considering how the Bernard family treated Gemma and her mother in the past, it makes perfect sense if she doesn’t want to come back!” Her tone is defensive now, a little hurt. “I was just curious. No need to get so worked up!”

She’s right, of course. About the history, about my short temper. I see her pout, turning her face away from me toward the gleaming elevator doors. Guilt pricks at me. This isn’t her fault.

“Alright, alright,” I say, my voice softening into a coaxing tone. “Don’t be mad. I didn’t mean to snap.” The last thing I need is Nancy sulking while I’m trying to navigate this emotional minefield.

Meredith was supposed to be here, the seasoned general leading the charge. But finding Gemma triggered a whole protocol—she had to rush back to headquarters to brief the elders. So she left me, the uncertain lieutenant, to make first contact alone. I’m already floundering.

Nancy glances back at me, her expression thawing. A playful, bargaining glint enters her eyes. “If you take me out for a meal later, I’ll be happy,” she declares, setting her terms.

A relieved, almost giddy laugh bubbles up. A simple request. A normal problem. “Sure,” I agree quickly. “My treat.”

The elevator dings, a soft, final sound. The doors slide open onto our designated floor. The corridor stretches out before us, anonymous and quiet. The moment of reprieve is over. The real task is just outside those doors. I take a deep breath, and together, we step out.

Linda's POV 

I stand in the corridor outside Mikhail’s room, feeling like a spare part. Through the slightly ajar door, I can hear Gemma’s voice—steady, professional, focused on business and deals. She’s in her element. He’s listening, engaging. They’re in a world I can’t access. It twists something inside me.

Instead, he frowns. A deep, disapproving furrow forms between his brows. “Sorry,” he says, his voice firm, leaving no room for debate. “I can’t agree to that.”

I’m stunned. It feels like the floor has dropped out from under me. “Why not?” The question is barely a whisper. “Don’t you want to be with Gemma?” It’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“I don’t want to limit her freedom,” he states, each word deliberate and heavy.

I stare at him, completely bewildered. He’s jealous—I can feel it radiating off him. He’s standing here because he can’t stand her being in that room with another man. Yet he’s refusing the one sure way to change that.

He continues, his gaze drifting back to the door, his voice quieter, almost to himself. “I want to be with her. But I want her to be happy. To do what she wants.” He looks back at me, and there’s a raw honesty in his eyes that I wasn’t prepared for. “If, after everything, she still chooses to give me a chance… that’s enough. I won’t take her choices away from her, even if it costs me.”

The conviction in his words is absolute. He would rather lose, fair and square, than win by forcing her hand. It’s a level of respect—of love, perhaps—that I don’t fully understand. My plan was to build a cage. His is to leave the door open and hope she walks through it.

I open my mouth to argue, to plead, but no sound comes out. His refusal isn’t just a ‘no.’ It’s a judgment on my entire approach. It leaves me standing there, exposed and foolish, with nothing left to say. The stark difference between his longing and mine yawns wide open, and I have no bridge to cross it.