Hired a Gigolo Got a Billionaire (Zoey and Christian) novel Chapter 183

Chapter 183

The days that followed the confrontation at the hospital passed in a strange, muted haze of paperwork and quiet routines. It was almost unsettling how life managed to keep moving forward, as if the universe itself insisted on reminding us that bills still had to be paid, meals still had to be made, and morning coffee still needed brewing- no matter how much had changed.

Joseph recovered remarkably well from his cardiac episode, though Dr. Mendez was adamant about a full week of rest. Most afternoons, we kept him company in the library-his favorite room in the house. Surrounded by shelves of well-loved books and with a clear view of the rolling vineyards, it had become his refuge. He liked to sit by the wide windows, a blanket over his legs, saying the green calm of the vines helped him breathe easier.

“I always knew Lawrence had flaws,” he said one quiet morning, a steaming cup of espresso in his hands. “But I never thought he’d be capable of something like this… of endangering his own family.”

I held his hand gently, not trusting myself to speak. Some wounds were too deep for words to reach.

Christian, on the other hand, threw himself into work with an intensity that worried me. Between managing the Kensington estate and coordinating the legal front, he hardly paused. The morning after the dinner, we’d gone to the police station to formalize our statement. The process was long, clinical, and draining. We had to recount every detail, every suspicion, every piece of evidence we’d gathered over the past few months.

The lead investigator, Francis Cook was a stoic, middle-aged man with a calm precision about him. He listened closely, taking careful notes in a notebook that looked nearly full already.

“You have a strong case,” he said at last, flipping through the files we’d presented. “The bank transfers, the witness statements, the sabotage reports… it all forms a very clear pattern.’

Joseph had also referred us to a criminal lawyer, Henry Pembroke, an impeccably dressed man whose quiet confidence filled the room. When we first met, he laid out all the documents across his polished mahogany desk and took several minutes to review them in complete silence.

“There’s more than enough here for multiple charges,” he said finally. “Conspiracy, attemp homicide,

corporate sabotage, coercion… The key will be structuring everything so the prosecution can build an airtight case.

And so, life fell into a strange rhythmthat was half ordinary and half haunted. We visited Matt every morning at the hospital, watching him grow stronger day by day. The doctors spoke more optimistically with each visit. If everything went well, he could be discharged within a couple of weeks.

Isabelle had become a steady, almost comforting presence. It was clear she was trying to make up for lost time, to rebuild something she’d once broken. She helped Carmen with Joseph’s care, arranged flowers around the house, and asked about Matt with a warmth that felt genuine.

“I’m trying to learn how to be a grandmother,” she said one afternoon as we placed fresh tulips in a vase by Joseph’s bed. “I couldn’t be much of a mother, but maybe I can get this part right.”

Then, on a quiet Tuesday morning, life shifted again. Christian was in the office, reviewing financial statements, while I folded Matt’s new baby clothes. The phone rang, and he answered automatically.

“Kensington,” he said, his tone slipping easily into the professional cadence I’d heard a hundred times before.

I could only hear his side of the conversation, but something in his posture told me it wasn’t business as usual.

“From Verdania Wine Expo?” he repeated, his voice sharpening slightly. “Yes, I remember you. What can I do for you?”

There was a long pause. His expression shifted from focused to wary.

“I see,” he said finally. “And you’d rather discuss this in person?… Yes, of course. I can be there in an hour.”

When he hung up, he met my eyes, his expression somewhere between curiosity and concern.

“It was Charlie Miller,” he said. “The security supervisor from Verdania Wine Expo. He says he needs to speak to me about something related to our case. Something important. But he wouldn’t say what over the phone.”

An hour later, we were back on the road toward the place where everything had started. The Verdania Wine Expo complex was quiet now, stripped of its glamour and noise. The once-bustling hallways felt hollow, the echo of our footsteps a stark reminder of the day that had changed our lives forever.

Charlie met us at the entrance. He was a man in his fifties with tired eyes, gray streaks in his hair, and the kind of nervous energy that made it hard for him to stand still. He led us through the quiet corridors of the Verdania Wine Expo administrative building until we reached a small conference room. Inside, a younger man waited, fidgeting in his chair, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

Christian took it carefully, his fingers closing around the device as if it were something sacred.

“Everything’s here?” he asked, his voice controlled but vibrating with emotion.

“Every file,” Paul confirmed. “All the security footage from that day, including the cameras facing the mezzanine stairs.”

For a long moment, none of us spoke. The air in that small room felt charged, heavy with the realization that we were holding the missing piece of the puzzle.

When we finally walked out of Verdania Wine Expo, the afternoon sun hit us like a promise of closure. In the car, Christian immediately called Henry, his words spilling out fast and clipped as they discussed the next legal steps.

From that point, everything moved quickly.

Elise was the first to be arrested, but she was held under medical custody because of her condition. I wasn’t exactly thrilled to hear she’d remain in a hospital room rather than a cell, but Henry reassured me. “Justice will take its course,” he said firmly. “And believe me, Mrs. Kensington, a prison is still a prison, no matter how sterile the walls are.”

Two days later, Francesca turned herself in. Not out of guilt, as our lawyer explained, but out of self-preservation. “She’s hoping to reduce her sentence by cooperating with the investigation,” he told us during a briefing. “Classic defense strategy once they realize there’s no way out.”

Even so, she was placed under house arrest, an electronic ankle monitor ensuring her newfound “remorse” didn’t carry her beyond the walls of her luxury apartment.

Lawrence, however, was still missing.

“He may have fled the country,” Henry warned. “But the arrest warrant’s been issued, and his photo’s already circulating through Interpol. It’s only a matter of time.”

Meanwhile, our lives continued moving forward, one day at a time, building a future upon the rubble of the past that we were finally leaving behind.