The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 497

Gideon’s suggestion hangs in the air, deceptively reasonable on the surface. Walking away would be the right choice for him. But the implications are brutal. If Christopher quits now, he’d be hit with a staggering penalty, and his reputation–already fragile–would be shattered. He’d likely never lead a major film again. The thing is, Dream didn’t force him into this contract. He auditioned. He wanted it. And while he’s a nightmare, he didn’t bring funding or demand creative control from the start. To pin the entire project’s problems solely on him feels… disproportionate. And Gideon, with his serene smile and broken nose, advocating for it so calmly, reveals a layer I didn’t expect. He’s not just a victim; he’s a strategist.

I keep my expression carefully neutral, even gentle. “I’ll give Mr. Pierce’s suggestion serious consideration,” I say, my voice diplomatically smooth. “I believe Christopher has had time to reflect. I’ll speak with him now. Please excuse me.”

I walk away, feeling Gideon’s gaze on my back, speculative and sharp. I can almost hear the gears turning. Who is she? Why did they send her?

Back in the hothouse atmosphere of Christopher’s dressmg 09:43

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room, there’s a slight shift. The petulant fury has cooled into a sullen, simmering resentment. He’s thinking. The Oscar bait I dangled is working.

“Have you thought it through?” I ask, not sitting this time. I remain standing, a posture of business. “Do you still want to be an actor?”

He glares at me, then his eyes dart away. He grinds his teeth, a physical manifestation of his internal war. His family is wealthy; he doesn’t need this. But the desire is there, raw and real. A

master’s temper is one thing, but the dream is

ds, a jerky, reluctant motion. “Yes. I do.”

poiled

nood dream. The confession, stripped of bravado, is able.

you want to continue,” I say, my tone leaving no room for gotiation, “then you will go out there and apologize. To every member of the crew you’ve insulted. To Gideon. To Callista Royce. A public, sincere apology.”

He bristles instantly. “Why should I apologize to them?”

“Because you were wrong,” I state, simple and absolute. “If you don’t, should I? Is that the precedent you want? That your company cleans up your messes while you hide?” I take a step closer. “If you want to stay in this industry, you will do as I say. Otherwise, I walk out that door and recommend to Mail thatз

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Dream Entertainment suspend your contract indefinitely. Let’s see how many Oscar–caliber directors call you then.”

He knows I’m not bluffing. He saw my rapport with Mikhail at the anniversary event, knows I have a standing he doesn’t fully understand. The threat of being “put on ice”—career limbo–is more terrifying to him than any penalty fee. His anger deflates, replaced b n acceptance. “So… I just have to apologize?”

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ildish release. “Fine!

ck, defeated.

s words echo. The rol

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from his actual temperament. He’s right. A great actor can transform, but Christopher is not a great actor. He’s a novice playing dress–up in a role that requires depth he doesn’t possess. Forcing him to continue as the lead helps no one–not the film, not Beckett, and in the long run, not even Christopher.

“I’m going to speak with Beckett,” I say, my mind made up. “You will be recast in a different role. You need to give up this one.”

Christopher stays silent, stewing. But from behind him, a figure I hadn’t even noticed–a man of unremarkable height and build, practically camouflaged against the garish sofa–shoots to his feet.

“Why change roles?” the man demands, his voice nasal and indignant. “Do you have any idea how much networking, how much effort we invested to secure this opportunity for Christopher?”

So this is the agent. Nolan Shepard. I look him over, the disdain immediate. A significant portion of Christopher’s unchecked arrogance sits squarely on this man’s shoulders. An enabler, a

yes-man.

“Are you Christopher’s agent?” I ask, though it’s obvious.

He puffs out his chest. “Of course. I’m Nolan Shepard.”

Thy name means nothing to me. “Before you pushed

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this lead,” I say, my tone icy, “did you ever stop to consider if he was suitable for it? Or did you just see ‘lead role‘ and grab it?”

Nolan is momentarily speechless, but his arrogance is unshaken. “Why would he play a supporting role when he could play the lead?” he retorts, as if stating an immutable law.

There’s a logic to it, but only if the actor has the skill to justify the spotlight. Otherwise, it’s a shortcut to public humiliation.

I realize arguing with Nolan is pointless. We speak different languages. I turn back to Christopher, the only vote that matters here. “Are you going to listen to him,” I ask, my gaze steady, “or to me?”

Christopher hesitates, torn. Nolan has been with him from the start, always supportive, never pushing him into uncomfortable situations… like acting lessons, for example.

He’s built Christopher’s confidence, telling him he’s a “rare gem” in a fake industry. To side with me against Nolan is to admit that foundation might be sand.

Seeing his client waver, Nolan turns his ire fully on me. “Who do

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