The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 429

Chapter 429
Cassian's POV

A sharp, unsettling jolt goes through me. He knows. Of course he knows. He’s known since I walked through the door, likely before. The illusion of control I’ve carefully maintained in his presence shatters.

Grandpa snorts, a dry, dismissive sound. “I’ve watched you grow up. Do you think I don’t know when something is eating at you?” His gaze is merciless. “Besides Blackwell Industries, what else would have you looking so grim?”

I feel exposed, laid bare. He’s right, of course. The other thing, named Gemma, is like a wound he can’t suture, a failure entirely of my own making. He won’t, and can’t, help me there. So he waits, knowing the only weight heavy enough to bring me here is the company.

“Alright, spill it,” he commands, cutting off my silent turmoil. “What’s really going on?”

I bite the inside of my lip, the metallic taste a focus. “There’s been a problem with the cash flow at Blackwell Industries.” The words feel scripted, insufficient. “I need to tap into some of the family’s reserved capital to keep operations stable.”

His skeptical eye sweeps over me. It’s a look that has assessed aircraft schematics and broken men with equal ease. “You’ve been pulling in significant profits as a captain and running the company. Can’t you handle it with your own funds? Why come to me?”

He’s puncturing the pretext. The money itself isn’t the issue. My personal reserves are deep. He knows this.

He leans forward slightly, the firelight catching the sharp planes of his face. “What you’re really looking for,” he states, not asks, “is the leverage of the Blackwell Airlines name and the full weight of the Blackwell family behind Blackwell Industries. To signal to the market, and to your… detractors, that it is unshakable. The money is just the token. The authority is what you need.”

His words hit with the force of truth. I flinch, minutely. He sees it all. He built this empire from nothing; he knows every play, especially the desperate ones.

“Grandfather, I don’t want to…” The protest is weak, automatic.

“If you really didn’t want to, you wouldn’t have let it get into such dire straits.” His voice is like gravel. “I’ve told you before. In business, you always need a contingency. But you, you surrounded yourself with people you assumed were loyal. You never considered they might have a price. And now?” He lets the question hang, a condemnation.

A cold suspicion, one I’ve been refusing to fully entertain, crystallizes. “Are you suggesting that…”

He doesn’t let me finish. “You don’t need to guess. How many key people have left Blackwell Industries recently? Don’t you have a clue?”

A shiver, cold and precise, runs down my spine. Rhett. He left with Reyna. The pieces slam together with brutal clarity. Is Grandfather saying Rhett is involved in this? Has he been a weapon aimed at me this whole time?

“Forget it,” Grandpa waves a hand, as if brushing aside my dawning realization. “You’ve come for help. You want the family’s influence? You have it. But don’t think that capital will last long if you don’t resolve the root of the problem quickly.”

I throw my hands up, the picture of wounded innocence. “How am I supposed to help? The DNA results aren’t back yet. I can’t just call the lab and tell the molecules to hurry up.” I gesture vaguely at the ceiling. “What else can I do but wait? It’s science, not pizza delivery.”

This, of course, is the wrong thing to say. Her frustration, which has been simmering for days, boils over. “The agency you recommended?” she hisses, advancing on me. “It’s been days and there’s still no news. Useless!”

I can feel her looking for a target, and right now, I’m the stray dog in her garden. It’s profoundly unfair. “I’m not the lab director!” I protest, shifting defensively on the cushion. “I can’t speed up the results. Yelling at me won’t make the DNA strands braid themselves any faster.”

Her hand moves in a blur. There’s a sharp, stinging slap on my arm. “Enough with your smart mouth!”

“Ow!” I yelp, rubbing the spot. The woman has a vicious backhand. Desperate times call for desperate, and hopefully pain-avoiding, measures. An idea, half-baked but brilliant, pops into my head. “Why don’t you just go to Florisdale with her?” I blurt out.

She freezes mid-rage. “What?”

“The Bernard family has projects there,” I press on, seeing a flicker of interest. “It’s the perfect cover. You go along as… I don’t know, overseeing the venture. Gemma wouldn’t suspect a thing. You could be right there, watching over her, without all this…” I gesture at her and the tense room, “…agonizing from a distance.”

Meredith goes still, the frantic energy draining from her posture. She stares at a spot on the wall, her mind racing behind her eyes. I can almost hear the gears turning. “Should I really go with Gemma to Florisdale?” she murmurs, not to me, but to herself.

I stay quiet, finally getting an unobstructed view of the TV. My work here is done.