The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 437

Chapter 437
Gemma's POV

The bell on the pet shop door jingles with a cheer as I step back out onto the sidewalk, a bag of dog treats and toys hanging from my wrist. 

My eyes scan the street, finding them immediately. Antonios and the other man are paused in front of a convenience store a few doors down, not holding hands anymore. 

I approach him, stopping just a few feet away, “Mr. Voss! What a coincidence.”

Antonios turns. 

His face, which had been relaxed, freezes. 

Surprise flashes, then panic takes over. His eyes dart past me, into the store, where his companion is still visible at the register. 

He looks like someone has caught him red handed. 

Just then, the tall man, with striking, mixed-ethnic features emerges carrying two bottles of water. He stops short, his gaze flicking from Antonios’s tense face to mine, wary and questioning.

“Antonios, who is this?” 

He asks. His English is clear, but lightly accented. I summon a polite, neutral smile and extend my hand. 

“Hi, I’m Gemma. A friend of Mr. Voss’s.”

The man hands one bottle to Antonios, then shakes my hand. His grip is firm, his eyes searching mine. “Nice to meet you. I’m Mitchel.” 

He looks back at Antonios, his expression bright and expectant, waiting for a cue to introduce the relationship between them. 

Seeing it, the puzzle pieces in my mind fall together automatically. I remember Cassian’s offhand comment, that Antonios’s parents are desperate for him to settle down, but man shows zero interest. 

It’s like romance doesn’t exist for him, be said. But the truth isn’t a lack of interest. It’s a different kind of romance entirely.

Antonios awkwardly pulls his hand back from Mitchel’s proximity. I see the flicker of hurt, quickly masked, in Mitchel’s eyes.

“Mr. Voss,” I say, keeping my tone gentle. “Could we talk for a moment?”

He nods mutely, and we step a few paces away, leaning against the sun-warmed brick wall of the building. From here, I can see Mitchel, his watching us with anxious concern. 

He loves him, it's obvious.

I keep my voice low. “You two are in a relationship, aren’t you?”

Antonios goes rigid. The panic returns, sharp and defensive. “Are you going to tell anyone?”  

He whispers. I shake my head, meeting his eyes directly. “I won’t tell anyone. Who you love is your choice. It doesn’t change how I see you. You’re just choosing to be with someone you love.”

He stares at me, disbelief conflicting with a desperate seed of hope. “You don’t think… something negative about us?”

The question breaks my heart, and to see that he is almost expecting the cold shoulder from me.

“Do you think your love for Mitchel has any negative or ugly sides to it?” I ask instead.

“Of course not,” he says, the answer immediate and fierce. “We love each other. We don’t want to hurt anyone.”

I smile, a real one this time. “Then that’s all that matters. Your love is genuine. Why would I find that negative?”

The tension visibly drains from his shoulders. He looks back at Mitchel, and for the first time, I don't see the fear or pressure in his expressions, just satisfaction. 

When we walk back, Antonios doesn’t hesitate. 

He reaches out and takes Mitchel’s hand, lacing their fingers together. The simple act makes Mitchel’s face light up with relief and joy.

I look down. My white shirt is soaked through with spilled tea. 

The fabric ks clinging and transparent, outlining of my lace bra. 

I feel my whole face getting red hot with embarrassment. 

I turn and hurry up the familiar staircase, leaving Grandpa to play-scold a very pleased-looking Hazel, who seems to think she has performed a wonderful trick.

In the bedroom that was once partly mine, I strip off the wet shirt. I pull a simple, dry blouse from the closet, and I’m fumbling with the buttons when I hear the soft creak of the door opening.

I freeze, then peer out from behind the dressing screen. Cassian is in the room. He’s not looking at something in particular, as if his eyes are scanning the space, as if searching for something. 

Anger replaces my embarrassment instantly. I grab the nearest object, which happens to be a large decorative pillow from the armchair, and hurl it at him.

It slams into the back of his head with a soft thump, then tumbles to the floor. He turns, and his eyes find me.

“I was changing!” I hiss, crossing my arms over my chest. “Who said you could come in? Are you trying to take advantage of me?” 

This sneaky man has sent my heart hammering in panic. I knew he wasn’t up to any good.

He opens his mouth, a defensive excuse on his lips. 

“I was just looking for…”

But then his gaze drops. It travels from my furious face down to where my arms are crossed. His eyes darken, the intended apology dying unspoken.

He takes a step closer, the air in the room suddenly crackling, charged. A slow, knowing smirk touches his lips, utterly transforming his face. The awkwardness is gone, replaced by a predatory confidence that makes my breath catch.

“Is it really me taking advantage,” he murmurs, his voice a low, dangerous rumble, “or are you trying to play hard to get?”