The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 504

Chapter 504

Gemma’s POV

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The next day, I stand outside the address Christopher gave me, a sleek, modern building in one of Florisdale’s most exclusive enclaves.

The interior, when he lets me in, is a pristine, minimalist showroom that perfectly matches the stereotypical image of a star’s lair. Everything is curated, designer, absurdly expensive. Even the unassuming art doll slumped casually against a wall, I know from a brief, involuntary glance at an auction catalog once, is valued in the millions.

I look at Christopher, hovering nervously by the still–open door, and think, Yes, this fits. The star. The wealthy heir.

“Aren’t you coming in?” I ask, noticing his reluctance. He’s peering into his own home as if it’s a haunted house.

He admits, his voice tight, that between filming and the pervasive, creepy feeling the place gives him, he’s been staying in a hotel. Bringing me here has resurrected thebo

unease.

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specialized equipment case in a corner and begin the setup–tiny, powerful cameras with wide–angle lenses, microphones sensitive enough to catch a whisper, all linked to a secure, encrypted server. Once the system is live on my laptop, I call him over.

“See this? Real–time monitoring on every feed. The devices are placed in blind spots, and they’re booby–trapped. If anyone finds and tries to remove one, it triggers a silent alarm to my server and a very loud one in the house.” I point to the grids of video on the screen, showing empty rooms from impossible angles. “If there is anyone—or anything–in this house that shouldn’t be, we’ll see it. Try to relax. Don’t let your imagination do the haunting for you.”

Seeing the comprehensive digital net cast over his home visibly unknots some of the tension in his shoulders. “Gemma, thank you. Seriously. If you hadn’t helped… I didn’t know who else to trust.” With his profile, hiring a standard security firm is a privacy nightmare. I am, for him, the perfect, discreet solution.

“Don’t thank me yet,” I say with a businesslike smile, turning my palm up. “I charge for this. And it’s not cheap. The hardware alone is military–grade, not available commercially. And my time, my expertise in parsing

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Surveillance footage for genuine threats amidst false alarms,

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<Chapter 504

more about money than anything.”

My smile sharpens. “Mikhail said that about me?”

Christopher pales slightly. “I’ll transfer the payment. Right now.” He scurries off to another room, presumably to his phone. One of these days, I think, I really am going to tape that man’s mouth shut.

Only after the notification of a very healthy sum hitting my account do I begin packing up. As I straighten, my gaze catches on a large, butter–soft leather beanbag chair tucked partially behind the heavy drapes of the floor–to–ceiling window. It’s an unusual placement, almost hidden. I stare at it for a beat too long, a strange, formless thought tugging at the edge of my mind.

“Is something wrong?” Christopher asks, returning.

I blink, the thought dissolving. “No. I was just thinking that sofa looks incredibly comfortable. I might want one.”

He brightens, eager to please. “Oh, that? I can get you one. They’re not that expensive.”

“How much is ‘not that expensive‘?”

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Turning IT AOWN WUUIU DE u Si

be turning away significant, easy money for my team and my future security fund. The money Mikhail promised for handling Christopher is for the baby; this is for me. My independence.

After a long moment, I type back, decisive: [Yes. Take it.] There’s no point in cutting off my nose to spite Cassian’s face Let him throw money at me if he wants. I’ll cash the check.

Back at the villa, the atmosphere is oddly still. No blaring video game sounds, no competitive shouting. Mikhail and Cassian are sitting in relative quiet. I glance toward the kitchen, but there’s no welcoming clatter or scent of spices. “Isn’t William coming today?” I ask, a sense of foreboding already settling in.

Mikhail shrugs. “He said he had something to handle. We’re on our own for dinner.”

The announcement sends a mild wave of despair through me. William’s culinary stewardship these past days has been a sanctuary. The memory of Cassian’s “cooking“-charred, flavorless experiments I used to politely choke down–rises like a ghost. “Maybe we should just go out,” I suggest, trying

to sound casual.

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adopting a pitiful, hopeful expression. “I’m feeling like Beef Bolognese. Why don’t you make some? For your poor, injured friend?”

“No way,” I refuse instantly, the refusal ingrained. I haven’t made that dish in years, not since the nights I’d spend hours on it only for Cassian to take a few uninterested bites before retreating to his study. The joy was siphoned out of it.

“I’m a patient!” Mikhail insists, laying the guilt on thick. “Can you really stand to see me suffer with subpar nutrition?” The man who once commanded a special forces unit is now pouting like a child denied candy. The cold, imposing soldier I met in Mythica was clearly a well–crafted façade.

As I stand my ground, a projectile sails down from the second–floor landing. A small decorative pillow, hurled with surprising accuracy, smacks Mikhail directly in the face. We all look up.

Donovan is standing at the railing, glowering. “The girl is pregnant!” he barks, his voice echoing in the vaulted space. “And you want her to cook for you?” He is visibly annoyed, a protective grandfather bear emerging.

Mikhail, chastened, doesn’t dare talk back to Donovan. 6/7

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