The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 495

< The Don Tore Up Our Divorce

Chapter 495

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Gemma’s POV

Beckett’s sneer hangs in the air, sharp and incredulous. You want me to cut it? The question is almost an insult to his craft. “I’d love to,” he hisses, leaning closer. “The problem is, that godforsaken line wasn’t even in the script! That entitled brat added it himself!”

I stare at him, momentarily robbed of speech. So, it’s worse than bad acting. It’s creative vandalism. And the content… I’ll make everyone accompany you in death. The line echoes in my head, so melodramatic, so utterly detached from any human emotion. Cassian, for all his faults, would never utter something so ludicrous. But Christopher, it seems, has a deep, unshakable conviction that he is an authoritarian romance novel CEO.

“And yesterday,” Beckett continues, his voice rising with each grievance, “he had the gall to tell Callista Royce her acting was bad! Callista! A former Best Actress winner! And she’s not good enough for him?” He’s working himself into a lather, his face flushed. I realize I need to extricate myself before the director’s tent literally explodes.

Stepping outside is like entering a different atmosphere—one

with communal frustration. The crew, a hive of teennidiank

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< Chapter 495

and assistants, are huddled in small groups, their complaints a low, angry hum.

…dozen assistants, I’m not kidding. And a touch–up every three minutes. His scenes are shorter than his bathroom breaks…”

…heard him tell Ms. Royce she was ‘blocking his light.‘ His light! Sho ional treasure‘

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is nose broken in that contation scene yesterday. Just n know if we can shoot today…”

uriating picture. Medio a cruelty that extend nd injuring seasoned ns into cold analysis r doesn’t exist in a

think. Someone p icity to flourish.

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10:07

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< Chapter 495

My cynical train of thought is derailed by a sudden shift in the air. The murmuring stops. All heads turn toward the main entrance of the soundstage, where the harsh daylight silhouettes a figure.

I turn with the rest.

He walks in against the light, and as he steps into the softer interior glow, the details resolve. He’s tall–well over six feet— with a lean, athletic build that even casual clothes can’t disguise. Sharp brows, a strong jaw, and eyes that are a startling, clear emerald green. They’re like deep, still pools, absorbing the chaotic room with a calm intensity. This is Gideon Pierce. In the flesh, he is… objectively, breathtakingly handsome. The camera doesn’t lie about that.

He moves with a quiet, assured grace, walking past our little cluster without a glance. That’s when I see it: a stark white bandage taped across the bridge of his nose. The injury. The proof of yesterday’s violence. He carries it without a slouch, without apparent anger, just a quiet, dignified fact.

I look away, the brief distraction over. Time to find the source of the plague. I ask a harried–looking production assistant, who points a trembling finger toward the far end of the warehouse–like building. “The big one. With the star on the door. Good luck.”

Bapproach Christopher’s dressing room, a surprising pacious

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< Chapter 495

trailer plunked inside the soundstage. I don’t even have to enter to hear him. His voice, petulant and shrill, carries through the flimsy door.

“…just quit! Whoever wants this garbage can have it! A bunch of has–beens and nobodies! How am I supposed to work with this? It’s boring!”

I press my lips together, the last of my patience evaporating. Arrogant and conceited. Nothing has changed.

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