The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 426

Chapter 426
Jeremy’s POV

The living room has just become empty. Moments ago, Gemma was here, distributing the tickets to the group. 

Jace was debating the best vantage point with the focus of a military strategist, and Molly was already scrolling through outfit ideas on her phone. Finally, it's just me and Zina, who is waving that ticket in her face. 

She spins on the couch, her eyes wide and accusing, shoving the ticket toward me. “Have you heard of this fireworks festival?”

I don’t need to look closely. I’ve seen the design. It’s austere, expensive, utterly devoid of the garish tourism-bureau flair it’s supposed to have. It screams of one man’s oppressive, guilt-ridden efficiency. I keep my voice a flat, calm lake. “Yeah, I’ve heard of it.”

Her surprise is almost comical. “You’ve heard of it and didn’t tell me?” Her voice climbs, laced with theatrical hurt. “Don’t you want to take me to see it?”

This is the trap. The emotional labyrinth women love to build. I navigate it with the only tool I have: blunt, boring truth. “I was afraid you wouldn’t be interested.”

The reaction is instantaneous, predictable. She recoils as if I’ve slapped her. “Who said I’m not interested? A fireworks festival sounds exciting just from the name!” 

She points a finger at me, her whole body shaking with righteous indignation. “You just don’t want to pay attention to me. Don’t deny it.”

The accusation hangs in the air. She wants a discussion. She wants validation, tears, promises.

In one smooth motion, I close the distance. My hand captures her wrist, gentle but unyielding, and I guide her backwards onto the soft cushions of the couch, my body following, caging her in. 

She lets out a sharp, surprised gasp. “What are you doing, you jerk!” But there’s no real fear in her eyes, just a flash of startled heat.

I lean down, my voice dropping to a murmur meant only for her. “You said I don’t pay attention to you,” I say, my lips brushing the shell of her ear. “So now I’ll show you if I’m paying attention or not.”

She’s speechless, her protest dissolving into a soft, indrawn breath as I kiss her putting an end to the line of questioning. 

The argument, the ticket, the festival—it all fades away under the sudden, urgent pull of desire. I sweep her up, carrying her the short distance to the bedroom, kicking the door shut on the world outside.

*****

Later, the air in our room is filled only with the sound of our slowing breaths. She’s curled against me, sweat-damp and soft, but I can feel the question coiling in her muscles before she even speaks.

She pokes my chest. “Do you really know about this festival?” Her voice is muffled against my skin, but the suspicion is clear. “Why haven’t I heard of it?”

Because it doesn’t exist, you wonderful, nosy woman, I think. Because your friend Gemma is the center of a universe engineered by a man who thinks 100,000 explosives is a suitable form of apology. 

The truth is a landmine, and I cannot touch it.

I turn my head on the pillow to look at her, and offer the only counter-attack I have left. I let a slow smile spread across my face.

“Were you not satisfied?” I shift, rolling partially over her, watching her eyes widen. “Shall we go again?”

I move toward her, and she laughs breathlessly, shoving half-heartedly at my shoulders. The question about the festival is forgotten, buried under a fresh wave of sensation.

As I lose myself in her again, a sliver of my mind stays ruthlessly clear. Sacrificing my own body, I think with a flicker of dark amusement. It’s the most effective silencer I know. And the truth is, it’s no sacrifice at all.

[Does Jace know about this?]

The air leaves my lungs. There it is. The question I’ve been dreading. I stare at the screen, my fingers frozen. I hadn’t planned on a private audience. I’d pictured us all together, laughing, the news slipping out amidst the noise and color, softened by the presence of the group. A coward’s plan, perhaps.

Zina, ever my ruthless, caring friend, doesn’t let me hide. Another message pops up.

[Gemma, I know you don't feel the same way about Jace, but we've known each other for years. It's best if you clarify things with him. I don't think he'll be unreasonable.]

I can see her, curled on her own sofa, probably with Jeremy a distracting presence beside her, typing this with fierce, protective concern. She’s not scolding me. She’s worrying about him. About Jace waiting in a silent, hopeful limbo for years, carrying a torch for a ghost. The image is unbearable. She’s right. It would be a special kind of cruelty.

I have been cruel, in my way. Polite, distant, always ensuring we’re in a crowd, never alone. Since I first recognized the quiet devotion in his eyes—a look that asks for nothing but screams everything—I’ve built a wall of casual friendship. I thought I was being kind, sparing us both an awkward conversation.

But Zina’s words reframe it. From his perspective, he’s just a man in love. That’s not a crime. My avoidance, my strategic silence, isn’t kindness. It’s a deeper dishonesty. It lets the hope fester. It will hurt more when the final door clicks shut.

This isn’t about some dramatic, tearful scene. It’s about respect. For him, for the friendship we’ve had since we were kids trading silly stickers. We deserve an ending that isn’t tainted by something left painfully unsaid.

I take a deep, steadying breath. The phone feels heavy in my hand. I type slowly, each letter a deliberate step toward a conversation I don’t want to have.

[I understand.]

I pause, my heart a dull drum in my chest.

[I'll talk to him that day.]