The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 478

Gemma’s POV

“William,” I say, forcing a light, amused tone, “with your reputation, hiring you as a private chef feels… absurd. Like using a Stradivarius to chop vegetables.”

I mean it as a gentle refusal, a way to let him off the hook without outright rejection.

But he doesn’t pull the offer. His expression remains earnest, shadowed by a guilt I still can’t fully trust. “I feel responsible for what happened. Think of it as… compensation. It’s just dinner. It won’t take much of my time.”

He’s being persistent and refusing him again starts to seem cruel, especially when his offer is framed as penance. I sigh inwardly. “Alright,” I concede, holding up a hand. “If you find the time. But absolutely not every day. I’m not running a Michelin–starred pop–up.”

A real smile touches his lips, the first I’ve seen that isn’t strained. “Great. I’ll get the ingredients for tonight.” He gives a small nod to Cassian, who responds with stony silence, and walks off in the opposite direction. 1/6

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The car ride back to the rental house is conducted in a deep freeze. Cassian sits like a brooding statue in the driver’s seat, and I can almost hear the calculations grinding in his head about how he ends up finding my admirers everywhere.

As we pull up, I can’t take the tension anymore. I get out and turn to him before he can shut his door. “If you’re that opposed to William coming over, I’ll tell him not to bother.”

He flinches, as if my words are an accusation. Then his face smooths over into a mask of forced nonchalance that’s more alarming than his anger. “No. It’s fine. If you’re okay with it, I don’t care.” The lie is so blatant it’s almost insulting.

I study him, baffled. “You really don’t mind?”

His jaw works. “As long as you’re happy.” The words are gritted out, each one a small, painful stone.

I stare at him like he’s started speaking in a dead language. The whiplash from possessive jealousy to martyr–like concession is dizzying. I bite my lip, deciding this is a maze I have no energy to navigate tonight.

Inside, the unfamiliar space feels both temporary and strangely charged. I hover near the stairs, gathering my courage. “I’m going to look at some other places to rent in the next few days,” I say, my voice softer now.

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His whole body goes still. “Are you unhappy here?” The question is raw, stripped of its earlier performative cool.

“It’s not that,” I say quickly, though the truth is more complicated. “It’s just… our situation has changed. Living together after a divorce… it doesn’t feel right.” The logic is inescapable to me. The papers are signed. This shared roof is a relic, a habit we haven’t broken.

I see the impact hit him. It’s not anger this time. It’s a profound, silent hurt that seems to hollow him out from the inside. He looks like I’ve driven a spike through his chest.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. As I turn to go upstairs, his voice stops me, flat and defeated. “I’ll be heading back to D.C. in a few days. Paramount and Blackwell Industries need me. So you won’t need to find a new place.”

He says it like he’s doing me a favor, removing the inconvenience of his presence. The subtext is a blade: I know you don’t want me here. The pain of it, his resignation, is unexpectedly sharp. I just nod, unable to speak, and escape upstairs.

William arrives later with bags of groceries. He moves through the kitchen with a quiet, efficient grace that is the polar opposite gf/Cassian’s simmering storm. The meal he produces

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unsurprisingly, exquisite–seared scallops on a pea puree, a fragrant herb–crusted rack of lamb, vegetables so precisely cooked they seem to glow. It’s art on a plate.

“This is incredible,” I tell him, meaning it. “Every bite is perfect.”

William smiles, a real, unburdened one that reaches his eyes. “Thank you.”

Across the table, Cassian pushes food around his plate. He might as well be eating cardboard. His entire focus is a laser beam on the space between William and me. Every smile I offer, every word of praise, seems to physically wound him. He watches with the bleak intensity of a man witnessing his own execution.

“So, you had a business meeting today?” William asks conversationally as we eat.

I give him the vaguest outline–a tech proposal for a resort client.

“Oliver Rennet?” William asks, tilting his head. “He’s dined at my place in the city a few times. Always orders the tasting menu.”

It’s a small world moment, but it underscores something. William, at the pinnacle of his craft, commands a resp

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transcends industries. People like Rennet seek him out. I’ve never given much thought to the prestige of a chef, but seeing it reflected in William’s calm confidence, I understand it now. Mastery, in any field, is a kind of power.

Before he leaves, William asks, “Any requests for tomorrow? I can prep in advance.”

I shake my head, feeling the imposition keenly. “Whatever you think is best. I don’t want to be a nuisance.”

“Never a nuisance,” he says softly, and then he’s gone, leaving behind the lingering scent of rosemary and a kitchen that feels oddly lonely.

The quiet is shattered by my phone. It’s Rennet’s assistant.

“Ms. Marino, after deliberation, Mr. Rennet was impressed with elements of both your proposal and Ms. Carey’s. He’d like to explore a potential collaboration, combining the strongest aspects of each.”

I blink, my mind struggling to catch up. “I’m sorry, a collaboration?”

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