The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 487

Chapter 487

Gemma’s POV

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The elevator ride back up feels longer than it should. I retrieve Mikhail’s phone from his nightstand, the screen dark and inert. Annoyance simmers under my skin at his little stunt. On the way back down, the elevator doors open to a chaotic scene in the hallway: a nurse rushing a gurney toward the operating rooms, the patient’s head wrapped in

bloody gauze.

I glance, but my focus is elsewhere. As long as it’s not

Mikhail, it’s not my concern.

When I step outside into the bright afternoon, the scene at the curb stops me cold. Only Linda and Vicky stand there, looking like two abandoned puppies. Linda’s face is pale, Vicky’s is twisted in fury. Mikhail’s hired car idles nearby, the

driver looking lost.

A spike of anxiety, sharp and sudden, pierces my irritation. “Where’s Mikhail?” My voice is tighter than I intend.

1/6

____dala manly in a hallow whienor

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< Chapter 487

pestering him! He got bored and left! It’s all your fault!”

Linda’s eyes well up with fresh tears, and a familiar headache begins to pound at my temples. This is the last thing I need. “What the hell is going on?” I demand, my mind racing. He je got discharged. He could! ly walk without a wince. How is he ‘gone‘ in the five minutes I was upstairs?

“He said he needed to use the restroom, Linda explains, her voice trembling. “We waited outside the men’s room for so long. We finally asked the driver to go in and check. He… he

wasn’t in there”

Speechless, I automatically reach for my own phone to try and locate his, only to remember the cold, hard object in my hand, I’m holding it. I lift Mikhail’s phone, and as I tilt it, the screen lights up with facial recognition. A notification banner sits at the top–a message from Mikhail, to me.

I tap it open.

[I’ll go first. Don’t miss me!]

Fury, hot and immediate, floods my veins. It wasn’t a spur–of–the–moment escape. He planned this. He deliberately left his phone with me. I’d assumed the surgery Rád knocked the mischief out of him. I was wrong.

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“So what do we do now?” Linda wails, wringing her hands. “His wounds are just startin to heal! What if they split open?”

Vicky is too busy glaring at Linda to offer any solutions. “Stop crying, okay? What’s the use? Will it make im come back?” Her shout is so sharp it actually shocks Linda’s tears into a hiccupping stop.

I look at the two of them, a study in helpless dysfunction. We need a plan, or we’ll stand here all day. “You both think about where he might have gone,” I instruct, forcing my voice to stay calm. “Anywhere he’s mentioned, any favorite spots. I’ll look for him, too. I’ll contact you if I find anything.”

It’s the best we can do. They nod, a pair of lost souls.

Driving home, my anxiety mixes with anger. He has no locator on him now. I’ll have to try pulling traffic camera footage near the hospital, a tedious and uncertain process. I’m also monitoring his bank card for any transactions, so if he’s fleeing the country, he’ll need a ticket.

By the time I pull into the villa’s driveway, my mind is a swirl of digital search parameters and worst–case scenarios. I push the door open, ready to dump this new crisis on cassian, to enlist his help in finding the runaway patient.

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There, sprawled across our living room sofa like he owns it, still in his hospital dischare clothes, is Mikhail. He’s leist

eating chips from a family–sized bag, watching the sports highlights on TV.

I stand frozen in the foyer, my bag slippin from my shoulder. “Mikhail?” The name comes out as a disbelieving exhale. “What are you doing here? I thought you were gone!”

He hears me, turns his head, and gives a casual wave with a chip–filled hand. “Took you longer than I thought. Traffic bad?”

I don’t answer. There was a jam. My shock is rapidly curdling back into pure, undiluted anger. I walk over, his phone now a projectile in my hand. I throw it at him. It bounces harmlessly off his chest and onto the cushion. “What the hell are you doing?”

He sits up a little, wincing only slightly, and leans back against the pillows. “Why are you so angry? I just thought they were really annoying. Wanted to get rid of them.”

He says it as if it’s the most logical thing in the world.

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He explains, his tone one of long–suffering exhaustion. For days, he’s been trapped between Vicky’s relentless

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