The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 511

Chapter 511

Gemma’s POV

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Cassian knows. He must. I am either lying awake in the dark or trapped in a shallow, restless sleep. Staying upstairs is my only defense, a feeble attempt to avoid the world and the pitying, terrified looks I imagine on their faces.

A soft knock sounds at my door. “Gemma?” His voice is a gentle murmur through the wood. “Can I come in? Zina is

here.”

I’ve been coiled tight, ready to refuse, t04:09

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burrow deeper. But Zina’s name acts like a key. It unlocks a different kind of panic -one of exposure. I scramble out of bed and yank the door open.

Since my room is tucked away from the staircase, Zina has no idea I’m already awake. I let Cassian in and immediately retreat back to the bed, pulling my knees to my chest. The room is a tomb. The heavy curtains are drawn tight, blocking out the aggressive noon sun, casting everything in a gloomy, perpetual twilight that perfectly matches the inside of my head.

“Could you get her to leave, please?” The request is a whisper, desperate.

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He closes the door softly. “Zina came specifically to see you. You know her. She won’t leave until she’s laid eyes on you.” He’s right. If I refuse, she’ll likely storm the gates herself. If he goes down and tries to make an excuse, she’ll assume the worst—that he’s locking me away—and the situation will explode.

My face darkens. I know her too well. Stubborn, loyal, a force of nature.

“So… can we keep this from her? For . now?” I’m not entirely sure where the urge comes from. A primal need to protect her? To preserve one last pocket of my life that isn’t defined by this looming horror? Cassian, Donovan, Mikhail… they’re here. They’ll find out. But Zina… I want to 14:09

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shield her from this ugliness for as long as I can.

Cassian doesn’t argue. He sits on the edge of the bed and reaches out, his fingers surprisingly gentle as he gathers my tangled, slept–on hair, smoothing it back into a loose, messy style that still feels more put together than I am. “Alright,” he says, his voice a low promise. “I promise. We won’t say anything to her.”

The promise gives me a thread of strength to cling to. I get up, moving like an automaton. I splash cold water on my face, the shock of it a brief anchor. I change into clean, soft clothes. Passing the vanity, I catch my reflection—pale, shadowed eyes, lips bloodless. After a 14:09

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beat of hesitation, I pick up a tube of lipstick, a muted rose color. I apply it carefully, watching as the faint color breathes a ghost of life into my face. It’s armor, however thin.

If it weren’t for the strict, timed schedule of the medication, I’d consider taking a dose early just to get through the coming hours. Instead, I slip the bottle into the inner pocket of my bag, a secret weight. Then I follow Cassian downstairs.

Zina is in the middle of a heated, one–sided debate with Mikhail, her hands waving expressively. “–and you want to send me to Nassau? Are you insane?” The very idea makes her shudder.

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&

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Mikhail, spotting my descent,

immediately holds up his hands in mock surrender, wisely deciding to end the

engagement.

Zina’s face transforms the moment she sees me. “Gemma! Finally. You need to talk some sense into this man. He’s threatening me with deportation!” Her eyes are bright, full of their usual fiery

concern.

I manage a small, practiced smile and take a seat on the sofa opposite her, leaving a careful cushion of space between

1. us. “What are you doing here today?” I ask, aiming for normalcy.

She doesn’t pick up on the strain.

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“Jeremy’s out of the woods, so I’m a free woman! Did you get my texts? Why didn’t you reply?” There’s no accusation, just genuine curiosity.

I pick up my phone from the coffee table, a prop. “I had it on silent last night. I didn’t see them.” The lie is smooth,

automatic.

“You had me worried sick! I thought these two might be giving you grief again.” She glares pointedly at Mikhail, and then her gaze flicks to Cassian, including him in her general suspicion.

Then she reaches out, her movement natural and quick, aiming to grab my hand in hers.

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I flinch back. It’s instantaneous, a reflex I can’t control. My hand jerks away before hers can make contact.

Zina blinks, surprised, but brushes it off. “So, how about it? That restaurant I told you about? The jerk chicken is supposed to be life–changing.”

I see the hopeful, determined light in her

eyes.

The outright ‘no‘ dies on my tongue. But the idea of a public dining room, of shared air and surfaces… “Is there…

a private room available?” I ask, the question tentative.

“Let me check!” She’s already on her phone, fingers flying. Moments later, she

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looks up, triumphant. “Yes! They have one. We can book it.”

A sliver of tension eases from my shoulders. A contained space. Fewer people. Manageable. “Alright,” I say, the word feeling heavy. “Let’s book the private room.”

“Perfect!” Zina grins, already gathering her things, ready to charge into our girls‘ day.

As we stand to leave, I feel the weight of two stares. Cassian and Mikhail exchange a look, a silent conversation full of unease.

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