The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 428

Chapter 428
Reyna's POV

The sting of Cassian’s words, the threat of security, still hangs in the air like cheap perfume. But now, the tears are gone. Wiped away, along with the pretense. I let my gaze settle on him, my face a smooth, unreadable mask. The power has shifted. I feel it humming in my veins.

“You should know who I was with at the charity gala yesterday,” I say, my voice calm, conversational. “The chairman of Kranton Bank.”

Cassian’s eyes narrow. He sees the chessboard now. “Reyna,” he says, the name a low warning. “What exactly are you playing at?”

His question is so perfectly predictable, so utterly blind to the game already in motion, that a laugh escapes me. It’s not a giggle; it’s a short, sharp burst of genuine amusement. “Playing?” I echo, tilting my head. “What else would I be doing? I’m simply looking to strike a deal with you.” I let the silence stretch for a beat, letting the implication sink in. “If I remember correctly, Kranton Bank has been your partner for a while now. If the bank were to… reconsider its position, don’t you think Blackwell Industries’ cash flow might encounter some friction?”

Liam… poor, gossipy, useless Liam, gasps. He’s finally connecting the dots. “Reyna, what’s your endgame here?” he sputters, his face flushing. “Are you so bent on making us suffer? What’s your problem?”

I turn my scathing look on him. What an insect! “And what makes you think you can talk to me like that?” My voice drips with contempt. “If it weren’t for Cassian, would the Cooper family even be breathing right now?” I lean forward slightly, aiming the dagger precisely. “If Blackwell Industries falters, the Cooper family will be the first to sink. A widow running a company? The vultures have been circling for years.”

I see the blow land. His father’s death, his mother’s struggle—it’s his sacred wound, and I’ve just salted it. His temper, always so close to the surface, ignites. “Reyna, cut the act!” he snarls. “Just because you’re clinging to some old man, don’t think you can throw your weight around here.”

The mask is off. There’s no need for the demure facade, not with these two. A light, knowing smile touches my lips. “Sure, I’m with an old man,” I agree, my tone almost breezy. “But don’t forget, he’s seventy-eight. He might drop dead any day now.”

The calculation is cold and clear in my mind. Abel Carrington. Widowed for decades. His only heir, a son in his forties, is currently listening to a brain tumor’s countdown. The timing is… fortuitous. A little warmth, a few well-rehearsed smiles, the promise of companionship in his final years—it’s a small price. When the dust settles, Kranton Bank, that river of money currently feeding Cassian’s empire, could be mine. The ultimate revenge, funded by his own lifeline.

“Reyna, do you really think Adam doesn’t know what you’re scheming?” Cassian’s voice cuts through my planning, cold as a surgeon’s blade.

I shrug, the picture of pragmatic indifference. “Even if he does, what of it? He’s old. If I can offer him some comfort in his twilight years, and he provides the capital I require, it’s a mutually beneficial arrangement. What’s the problem?”

Adam hasn’t touched a woman in years, I think, the plan solidifying. At his age, the appetite is gone. I just have to be a pleasant portrait on the wall. A little patience, and all that wealth transfers to a name he’ll never live to see me spend.

Emboldened, I stand. My heels click on the polished floor as I walk to the front of his monstrous desk. I brace my hands on the cold surface and lean in, closing the distance between us, forcing him to see the resolve in my eyes.

“Mr. Blackwell,” I say, the title a deliberate barb. “If you truly care about the bigger picture, you’ll avoid crossing me at this juncture.”

The irony is delicious. I’m almost grateful for his stubbornness, for banishing me from his company. If he hadn’t, I might never have been so distracted, so furious, that I stumbled into the path of that town car. Abel’s town car. Fate, it seems, favors the prepared. And the furious.

I am gloating inside, watching the cold fury harden his features, knowing I have him cornered. He needs Kranton. I am, for now, Kranton’s whim.

The blow comes without warning. His hand connects with my cheek in a crack that echoes in the silent office. The pain is sharp, immediate, a white-hot brand on my skin. My head snaps to the side.

“You’re out of your mind!” he snarls.

Liam looks marginally relieved, but the deeper problem remains. I pinch the bridge of my nose, a dull pressure building behind my eyes. “Grandfather isn’t unreasonable. If I explain the situation, he’ll agree.”

The words sound more certain than I feel. I am the one running Blackwell now, yes. But Adamas Blackwell has never fully released the reins. The corporate structure reflects his lingering doubt. 

And since Gemma… since she walked away, that doubt has calcified into a cold, silent disapproval. A portion of the company, a critical lever of power and capital, is still his to withhold. Blackwell Industries is facing its most direct threat. I have no choice but to ask. I have to try.

That evening, the halls of Blackwell Manor feel colder, grander, more judgmental than usual. The butler takes my coat without a word. Adamas is in the study, a monolithic figure in his wingback chair, the fire casting long, dancing shadows. He looks up from his ledger, his sharp eyes registering my solitary presence with clear surprise.

“Well, look who decided to drop by,” he says, his voice a dry rumble. “What’s the occasion?”

The implied criticism is clear: I am a visitor here, not a resident. I only come when summoned. I change into the house slippers left for me, the domestic ritual feeling like a concession. Hazel pads over, her gait still slightly uneven from her old injury, but her tail thumps a steady, forgiving rhythm against my leg. Her welcome is the only uncomplicated thing in this house.

I make my way to the sofa opposite him. The words, usually so easy to order and deploy, feel heavy in my throat. For the first time in recent memory, I feel a sliver of uncertainty in front of this man. It is not fear. It is the acute awareness that I am coming to him from a position of need, not strength.

“Grandfather,” I begin, the formal address deliberate. “I need to talk to you about something…”

He doesn’t let me flounder. His gaze, hawk-like, slices through my prelude. He sets his ledger aside, the gesture final. “Something wrong with Blackwell Industries?”

He knows. Of course he knows. He likely knew before I did. The game, it seems, is always being played on multiple boards, and he has never left his seat.