Hired a Gigolo Got a Billionaire (Zoey and Christian) novel Chapter 173

173 /200

Chapter 173

Christian’s POV

The office was an absolute mess. Papers were scattered across the mahogany desk I usually kept perfectly organized, pending contracts piled in every corner, and my schedule was a disaster after spending over a week practically living at the hospital. Financial reports were mixed with legal documents, and at least three half- empty cups of cold coffee sat abandoned among the growing mountain of work.

But I couldn’t focus on anything except finding out the truth about what happened to Zoey.

I’d tried working all morning, forcing myself to answer the avalanche of emails that had piled up, carefully reviewing the glowing reports Lisa had prepared about Vintara’s incredible success, and mechanically signing the stack of urgent documents Marcus had separated for me. But my mind kept drifting back to that conversation in the hospital room, to the words that haunted me like a broken record: “The recordings disappeared.”

How the hell do security recordings just vanish? At an event the size of Verdania Wine Expo, with hundreds of people walking around, major deals being closed, and the press covering every second, the security system should’ve been state-of-the-art. It was practically unbreakable.

The anxiety was eating me alive. Every minute without answers was another minute Elise stayed free, another minute the woman who almost killed my wife and son breathed easy while I drowned in uncertainty.

By noon, after reading the same contract five times without absorbing a single word, I gave up on pretending to work and called Matthew.

“Do you have time to help me with an investigation today?” I asked straight to the point, skipping any small talk.

“About the cameras?” he asked immediately, proving he’d been thinking the same thing.

“Exactly. I want to go to Verdania Wine Expo and talk to the head of security in person. I need to look that man in the eye and understand how the hell those recordings just evaporated.”

“I’ll be ready in twenty minutes,” Matthew said without hesitation.

The drive there was tense and silent. I gripped the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turned white, while Matthew stared out the window, lost in his own thoughts about what we might find.

The Verdania Wine Expo venue was completely deserted, eerily quiet. The same pavilion that had been buzzing with energy just over a week ago was now dead. Only a few permanent structures remained, and our footsteps echoed hauntingly through the empty space.

We found the organization’s office in the back of the building, a small, practical space that starkly contrasted with the event’s former grandeur. The head of security, Charlie Miller, greeted us with the exhausted look of someone still buried in post-event bureaucracy.

“Gentlemen, how can I help you?” he asked, gesturing vaguely toward two uncomfortable plastic chairs across from his makeshift desk, cluttered with final reports and paperwork.

“I’m Christian Kensington,” I said, watching his reaction to my last name. “My wife had an accident during Verdania Wine Expo. She fell down the marble staircase in the mezzanine. We’d like to access the security footage from that specific time.”

“Ah, yes.” Charlie let out a heavy sigh, his expression darkening immediately. “A terrible situation. I’m so sorry for what happened. How is she recovering?”

“She’s doing better, thank you,” I said, keeping my tone polite despite the frustration bubbling under the surface.

“About the security footage…”

“That’s exactly what I can’t understand,” he interrupted, shaking his head with genuine frustration that almost matched mine. “We’ve never had this kind of problem at any event we’ve organized. The system worked perfectly for all three days of Verdania Wine Expo, but specifically the footage of the main staircase, right at the time of your wife’s accident… it just doesn’t exist.”

“What do you mean, ‘doesn’t exist’?” Matthew asked, leaning forward in his chair.

Charlie flinched visibly, his eyes widening in genuine shock, his face a portrait of complete surprise.

“Attempted murder?” he repeated, clearly unsettled. “Sir, I thought it had been an accident. Mrs. Kensington tripped on the stairs, didn’t she? That’s what we were told.”

I quickly put a hand on Matthew’s arm, giving him a warning, reproachful look. We had said too much, revealed information that needed to stay private.

“Sorry for the confusion,” I said calmly, trying to contain the damage. “My brother-in-law is very shaken by everything. We are still trying to piece together exactly what happened that day.”