The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 476

Chapter 476

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Gemma’s POV

I look at Vicky, who is a puddle of regret and tears and the truth of Liam’s words hits me. Only Mikhail could have dragged her out of that den, cutting through her performative rebellion.

Back at the hospital, the doctor patches up the gash on Mikhail’s temple. The lecture is stern, delivered with the weary frustration of someone tired of dealing with stubborn patients. “The next unsupervised field trip could be your last. Infection in this sRennet is no joke.”

Vicky looks like she wants to fold in on herself and disappear. When the doctor leaves, she edges toward the bed, her voice a tiny, broken thing. “Mikhail…”

It’s a plea for absence. Liam just shakes his head, the ‘I told you so‘ hanging unspoken but heavy in the air. Vicky doesn’t defend herself. She just cries silently, the fight utterly drained from her.

Night has fully settled when Cassian arrives to collect me. His sharp eyes take in Mikhail’s fresh bandages, his brow furrowing in silent question. “Gemma. The car’s ready.”

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laceration and a monumental dose of idiocy–then grab my bag. As I’m leaving, I see Linda hovering at the end of the corridor. She’s been absent all day, and the timing feels… pointed. I have no desire to be the next target in whatever silent war she and Vicky are waging. I quicken my pace, following Cassian out.

Day Four. Proposal Day.

The draft is complete, a sleek, formidable piece of digital architecture saved on a brand–new, sterile USB drive. The resort looms ahead, all gleaming glass and bad memories.

Cassian’s grip tightens on the steering wheel as we pull in. “I’m not waiting in the car,” he sRennets, his voice leaving no room for debate. “Not after last time.”

I understand his fear. I feel it too, a low hum in my own veins. “Then wait outside the conference room door,” I compromise. “Within shouting distance.”

He nods, appeased for now.

Inside the appointed room, it’s just me. Oliver Rennet isn’t here yet. I approach the large monitor at the head of the table, plug in my USB drive. The system recognizes it. I double–click

my file.

Thy screen flickers. Then, it dies. A solid, unforgivinge 16:37

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screen of death.

A cold fist closes around my heart. I force a reboot. The system whirs back to life. I navigate to the drive. It’s empty. The USB has been wiped clean, formatted into oblivion.

The door opens. Rehena Carey glides in, her assistant a step behind. She takes in the sight of me standing before the blank monitor, and a slow, venomously sweet smile spreads across her face. “Oh, dear. I forgot to mention. That terminal has a persistent virus. Totally unreliable. IT has been useless about fixing it.”

Our eyes meet. The message is clear: This was no accident.

I hadn’t expected her to be this brazen, this persistent. Last time was covert sabotage. This is a public execution.

“Don’t tell me you actually stored your only copy on that thing?” she asks, her tone dripping with mock sympathy.

My hand, resting near the dead mouse, twitches—a tiny, involuntary betrayal. It’s all the confirmation she needs.

“What a tragedy,” she sighs, not sounding sorry at all. She exchanges a look of pure triumph with her smirking assistant. “Your proposal is gone, Ms. Marino. Whatever will you show Mr. Rennet?”

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She settles into a chair, looking every bit the victor. “We did try to tell you. Competing was always going to end in embarrassment for you.”

I don’t respond. I simply eject the useless USB drive, pocket it, and move to the opposite side of the long table, taking a seat far from her.

My calm seems to unsettle her. “You’re… not leaving?” she asks, baffled.

She expected panic. Desperate data recovery attempts. Or a humiliated retreat. She didn’t expect me to just… sit here.

I look across at her. “Mr. Rennet hasn’t arrived. Why would I leave?”

The confidence in my voice isn’t feigned. The USB was a decoy, a shiny lure. My real work is elsewhere.

Rehena studies me for a long, suspicious moment before shrugging, her confidence returning. She’s already won, in her

mind.

Three minutes later, Oliver bustles in, all efficient smiles. “Ladies! You’re both here. Excellent. Let’s not waste time. Proposals, please.”

Rehena is on her feet instantly, a thick leather portfolin haud.7

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“I’d be happy to present first. I’m sure Ms. Marino doesn’t mind.” She shoots me a glance that says because you have nothing to present.

“Not at all,” I reply, leaning back in my chair.

As Rehena launches into her pitch, her voice a smooth, practiced cadence, I don’t pretend to listen intently. I pick up my phone, my fingers moving quietly over the screen. I’m not playing a game. I’m verifying connections, ensuring pathways are clear.

Only when she finishes, receiving a nod of approval from Oliver, do I set my phone down.

“A very thorough, traditional approach, Ms. Carey,” Oliver says, his praise measured. “Solid foundations.”

He turns to me, his expression politely expectant. “And your proposal, Ms. Marino?”

Rehena can’t contain herself. “Mr. Rennet,” she interjects, a mask of false concern on her face. “There was a… technical issue. Ms. Marino’s storage device was corrupted. I’m afraid her proposal may be lost.”

Oliver’s smile stiffens. Time is his currency, and this smells of waste. “Is that true, Ms. Marino? Can you provide the

proposal?”

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“Of course,” I say. I tap my screen once. “I’ve just sent the file to your tablet, Mr. Rennet. Along with a live demo link.”

The air in the room changes. Rehena’s smug satisfaction evaporates. Her assistant pales. They stare at me, then at each other, the reality dawning: they’d been played. They targeted a decoy.

I meet Rehena’s shocked gaze, my voice soft but clear. “You seem surprised, Ms. Carey. Is keeping a secure, off–site backup not standard practice for you?”

Her face darkens into a scowl of pure fury. She shoots a blistering, silent reprimand at her hapless assistant.

I proceed. I walk Oliver through my proposal not as a static document, but as a living framework. I talk about adaptive firewalls, predictive threat algorithms, seamless integration that feels invisible. It’s not an upgrade; it’s a reinvention.

When I finish, Oliver is no longer just politely curious from a distance. He’s intrigued, leaning forward. “This is… genuinely innovative, Ms. Marino. A completely different paradigm. I hadn’t even considered this axis.”

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