The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 425

Chapter 425
Gemma’s POV

I step towards the parking, feeling the chilly air against my skin. 

BOOM!

I hear a sudden crack that seems to split the sky right above me. I flinch, my head snapping up, only to see fireworks in the sky. 

Not just a few, but a whole cascade of glittering gold and silver, blooming like flowers against the velvet black sky, with the sharp scent of sulfur drifting down.

Is it some festival? 

My thoughts are cut short by a blur of movement nearby. A girl in a flowing white veil laughs, tears streaming, as she throws herself into the arms of a young man who spins her around. 

Oh! A proposal, of course.

A soft, genuine smile touches my lips. How romantic. A private show for them, a free one for me. 

I haven’t stood and just watched fireworks in so long that I can’t even remember.

I feel his presence. before I see him. Cassian stops beside me, close but not touching. 

I don’t look at him, but I know his gaze has followed mine to the embracing couple. From the corner of my eye, I see his profile, the fireworks painting his face in flashes of colored light. 

His expression is… complicated. A little distant, a little soft. Is it nostalgia? For what? I can’t quite place it, and I don’t try.

The final chrysanthemum of bright red light fades, leaving ghostly trails on my retina. The quiet that follows feels deeper than before. I smooth my dress, ready to head towards my car.

“There’s a fireworks festival coming up in a few days.”

His voice is abrupt, cutting through the silence. I pause, turning to look at him fully now. “A fireworks festival? In this season? I haven’t heard of that before.”

He falls into step beside me as I begin to walk slowly along the concrete. 

“It’s an event organized by the tourism bureau to attract visitors. It’s still under wraps, not many people know about it.” 

He glances at me, adding, “If you’re interested, I can get us some tickets.”

The old Gemma would have leapt at the offer. The Gemma who once planned to visit the summer fireworks festival by Lake Gilmour. I begged him to go with her, only to be met with a look of such cold disgust that the very memory of sparklers turned to ash. 

I never went… not to Lake Gilmour, not anywhere. I told myself it was no fun alone.

Now, I think that was foolish. Beauty doesn’t require a witness.

I’m too old now, for fairy lights and childish wonder. But, I am leaving soon. One last local spectacle, a proper goodbye to this city’s sky, might be a fitting bookmark.

And I think of Zina’s loud laugh, Jace’s quiet awe, Molly trying to photograph every burst. A final memory for them, too.

“If possible, could you get a few extra tickets? I’ll transfer the money to you.”

“Sure, no problem,” he says, without asking who they’re for. 

*

The line goes dead just as Adam hurries in, summoned by my late-night text. He looks alert, expectant, ready for a corporate crisis.

“Order a batch of high-quality fireworks,” I say, my gaze fixed on the darkened cityscape beyond the window. “They need to be delivered within two days.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence. I can feel his confusion without turning.

“Mr. Blackwell… why the sudden order for fireworks?” he finally asks. Then, tentatively, trying to be helpful, “How many do you need, sir? Twenty boxes? Or fifty?”

Fifty, suitable for a company picnic. Just trivial little sparkle… the idea is so small it’s insulting.

I turn my head slightly, a frown appearing as I look at him. The number is absolute in my mind. “Make it one hundred thousand shots.”

I see the shock hit him. His eyes widen, his professional composure cracking. I can almost hear his frantic internal calculation: Even the famous Lake Gilmour festival used less than thirty thousand… 

He swallows, choosing his words with care. “Mr. Blackwell, one hundred thousand fireworks… That might be difficult to order. The logistics alone, in two days…”

His practicality is a dull blade against the scope of what I need. A slight, impatient frown tightens my features. The how is his problem. I have defined the what.

“Order as many as you can,” I instruct, my tone leaving no room for further debate. “Make sure they’re high-quality. And have a variety of colors.”

I watch him process the impossibility. I see the moment he accepts it, not as a feasible task, but as an unbreakable command from me. His head dips in a vigorous nod, the daunting weight of it settling onto his shoulders.

“Yes, sir,” he says, and turns to go, already pulling out his own phone. 

I turn back to the window. The sky is empty, a blank slate. Soon, it won’t be.