Hired a Gigolo Got a Billionaire (Zoey and Christian) novel Chapter 106

Chapter 106

I found Joseph in the private wine cellar, a space that felt almost sacred within the Kensington estate, reserved for the rarest and most precious bottles. The air was cool and perfectly controlled, carrying the rich scent of aged oak and old wine-a fragrance that seemed to hum with history. Stone walls lined with shelves held bottles worth more than luxury cars, a quiet testament to the family’s legacy and pride.

Joseph sat in an old leather armchair, the kind that had probably been there for decades, studying a dusty bottle under the soft amber light. Even at eighty-three, there was a commanding strength in his posture. His hands, weathered by time and work, cradled the bottle with the same reverence a priest might give to a relic.

“Joseph?” I said gently, not wanting to startle him.

He looked up, and his whole face brightened. The lines around his eyes deepened as he smiled, the kind of smile that carried a lifetime of warmth.

“Ah, Zoey! Come, come. I want to show you something.”

I stepped closer, my heels clicking softly against the stone floor. He was holding a bottle so old that the label had nearly disintegrated, its edges yellowed and curling with age.

“What is it?”

“Kensington Reserve, 1947,” he said proudly. “The first wine my father made after returning from the war. I was only five, but I remember him crying when the first barrel was opened.” His fingers brushed the bottle gently, as if soothing a fragile creature. “I’ve kept this one for decades. It’s the last one left.”

“It belongs in a museum,” I said, genuinely awed.

“No, no.” He shook his head with firm conviction. “Wine is meant to be drunk, to celebrate life. And who knows if I’ll have another birthday to toast?” His tone was serene, but the quiet finality in his words made my throat tighten. “Life is finite, Zoey. Mine has lasted longer than most men get.”

“Don’t say that, Joseph,” I protested softly, a pang of emotion rising in my chest. “You’ll have plenty more birthdays ahead.”

He smiled again, that wise, knowing smile of a man who’d long made peace with the idea of endings.

“Maybe so. But either way, I’m opening this one tonight-to celebrate eighty-three years well lived. And I want you to be the first to taste it with me.”

I blinked, surprised by the honor.

“Me? But shouldn’t Christian, or Marcus-

“They’ll get their turn.” He waved a dismissive hand, as if brushing away something trivial. “But you… you’ve brought something back to this family, to my grandson. Something I thought he’d never find again.”

My throat constricted. His words slipped past every defense I’d built, landing right where I was most vulnerable.

“Joseph, I…”

“You know,” he said, his gaze drifting toward a framed photograph on the wall-a younger version of himself

beside a smiling woman amid blooming vineyards. “When Sophie was alive, this house had music. Not the kind played by hired musicians, but the music of laughter, of life being lived out loud.”

He touched the glass over her face gently, his expression softening with love and loss.

“Joseph, I…” The words stuck in my throat, guilt pressing down on me like a weight I could no longer carry.

“And because of that,” he continued, his voice rich with emotion, “I want you to know you are a Kensington- not just on paper, not just in name.” His eyes shone with tears that caught the cellar’s golden light. “And I’d be honored, if you’d allow it, for you to call me Grandpa. Not formally. But from the heart.”

It was like something inside me cracked open. The dam I’d held for months finally gave way. Every lie, every half -truth, every moment I’d questioned what Christian and I had built-whether it was real or just a beautifully constructed illusion-came crashing down in a wave of guilt and shame.

“I can’t…” The words broke into a sob as tears streamed freely down my face. My shoulders shook, my body trembling with the effort to hold myself together.

Joseph’s brow furrowed, confusion and concern flooding his features as he reached toward me.

“Zoey, what is it?”

“I don’t deserve this.” The confession tore from me in pieces, between sobs. “I don’t deserve this wine, or your kindness, or… or a place in this family.’He leaned forward, his voice gentle but firm. “What are you talking about, my dear?”

I lifted my gaze to his. What I saw there-his compassion, his trust, his love-made it impossible to keep pretending. It was his kindness, his complete and unearned faith in me, that finally broke me open.

“I’m an impostor, Joseph.” My voice came out as a whisper, raw and cracked. “All of this… our marriage… it’s all a lie.”

The silence that followed was absolute. The hum of the cellar faded away until there was only the soft sound of my own sobbing and the distant ticking of an old clock, marking each excruciating second of the truth that could shatter everything.