Hired a Gigolo Got a Billionaire (Zoey and Christian) novel Chapter 179

Chapter 179

Christian’s POV

Dr. Mendez arrived in under twenty minutes, medical bag in hand and a focused, professional expression that immediately put me somewhat at ease. Joseph was lying down, his breathing still uneven but far more stable than in those terrifying first moments after his collapse.

Zoey stayed by my side, silent and watchful, as the doctor began his careful examination. He checked blood pressure, listened to heart and lungs, tested reflexes–every motion precise, practiced, the product of decades of cardiology experience.

“It was a transient supraventricular arrhythmia, triggered by acute stress,” Dr. Mendez explained, slipping his stethoscope back into the bag. “Given Mr. Joseph’s recent cardiac history, including his surgery a few weeks ago, this kind of episode isn’t unexpected under intense emotional strain.”

“But he’ll be alright?” I asked, hating how unsteady my voice sounded.

“The situation is fully stabilized,” Dr. Mendez reassured. “There’s no sign of ventricular compromise or acute ischemia. But he must rest completely for at least forty-eight hours and avoid any emotional or physical stress. At his age, recovery can be easily delayed by events like this.”

“I understand,” I said quietly, feeling guilt settle in my chest like lead.

“I’ll prescribe a short-acting anxiolytic to help him sleep, and I’ll adjust his antiarrhythmic dosage,” the doctor added, scribbling quickly on his pad. “If you notice any changes in breathing, chest pain, or confusion, call me immediately.”

When Dr. Mendez finally left, Joseph was already sleeping soundly, lulled by the mild sedative he’d been given. Zoey pulled the blanket up around his shoulders with gentle, deliberate care a gesture so full of tenderness it warmed me despite the chaos raging inside me.

“He’s going to be okay,” she murmured, more to herself than to me.

“He will,” I said, though the guilt still gnawed at me.

We went back downstairs to the dining room, where emotional wreckage hung thick in the air. The table was exactly as we’d left it-half-eaten plates, toppled glasses, napkins scattered across the floor like silent evidence of the explosion that had just torn our family apart.

Annie and Matthew were in the corner, talking in low, urgent tones. Marcus paced back and forth like a caged animal, trying to process the fact that his own uncle had betrayed them all so completely. Zoey’s father sat in stunned silence, clearly still trying to make sense of how he’d been pulled into a real-life tragedy fit for a soap opera.

But it was my mom Isabelle who drew my attention immediately. She sat in one of the armchairs in the corner, trembling visibly while Regina offered her a glass of passion fruit juice with quiet, maternal patience.

“Drink a little more,” Regina was saying softly. “It’ll help calm your nerves.”

I approached them slowly, the weight of everything pressing on me. Isabelle looked up as I knelt beside her chair, her eyes red and swollen from crying, though she was trying to keep some composure.

“Mom,” I said gently, my throat tight. “I’m sorry for the way I exploded back there. That’s not how I wanted things to come out. Not how I wanted you to find out…”

Isabelle stayed silent for a long moment, her hands trembling slightly as she held the glass.

“It’s not the first time,” she said finally, her voice raw. “Gwen is proof of that. But I truly believed he’d changed over the years. That he’d become a better man.”

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