The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 421

Chapter 421
Gemma’s POV

The realization dawns slowly, then all at once. The coat in my hands, the scent clinging to the wool… spice, clean linen, something uniquely him. 

It’s Cassian’s. 

Of course it is.

I hold it out, offering it to him somewhat awkwardly. 

“It fell on the floor. If it’s soiled, I can have it cleaned and returned.” 

The evening air filtering through the tall, open windows is crisp, and he’s only in a dark dress shirt beneath his suit jacket. He must be feeling the chill.

He doesn’t take it. He just shakes his head, his gaze dropping briefly to my bare arms. “Keep it on. You’re in a sleeveless dress. It’s cold outside.” The concern is practical, but it feels like a violation of our new, detached rules.

I don’t argue. Arguing would make it a thing. I simply drape the heavy coat over my forearm, a buffer against the world and its drafts. Stepping out onto the terrace for some air, I snag a miniature pastry from a passing tray. The auction felt endless, and my stomach is empty.

I’m taking a small bite, turning to look at the city lights, when a sudden, sharp shove hits my shoulder from behind.

The force isn’t massive, but it’s deliberate and rude. I stagger a step. The person behind me—a woman—lets out a little gasp as the red wine in her glass sloshes violently. Despite my instinctive jerk away, a few fat, crimson drops escape the rim and land with cold, wet precision on the skirt of my black dress.

“Oh! My goodness, I’m so sorry!” The voice is high, feigning surprise. “I didn’t realize anyone was standing there.”

I turn slowly, fixing her with a sharp look. Didn’t notice? I’m standing in the middle of a lit terrace, not hiding in a potted plant. She’d have to be willfully blind.

I take her in. She’s around Sybille’s age, meticulously made-up, her expression one of practiced, insincere apology. The pieces click. This is the woman who was sitting with Sybille and Claire during the auction. Sandra.

I don’t flinch. “Mrs. Collin, if I were you, I’d be more concerned with my own household. Your husband’s… extracurricular activities are hardly a state secret. You must possess remarkable tolerance.” The Collin patriarch’s infidelities are legendary. While Sandra’s formidable presence may have curbed them somewhat, old habits, like old scandals, die hard. And she’s been out of the country for a year, unable to keep her usual tight leash.

Sandra’s face darkens, the carefully applied makeup unable to hide the flush of anger. “You will not speak about my family!” she hisses.

I keep my smile cool. “Collin family affairs are public entertainment. If you don’t want the commentary, perhaps discourage the behavior. If the deeds are done, why fear the words?”

She’s seething now, trapped by her own attempt to humiliate me. I decide to twist the knife, just a little. My voice drops, taking on a conversational, razor-sharp edge. “Tell me, Mrs. Collin… do you recall your goddaughter’s favorite massage parlor?”

The change in subject throws her, but the reference is unmistakable. Given her closeness to Sybille, Claire is undoubtedly her goddaughter. And Claire’s scandal, the one involving a very specific type of male masseur and a leaked tabloid story, was impossible to miss for anyone in our social sphere.

Sandra’s eyes turn to ice. “What is your point?” she asks, each word a shard of frost.