Hired a Gigolo Got a Billionaire (Zoey and Christian) novel Chapter 322

Chapter 322

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Chapter 322

The call came two days after the improvised party at Nate’s house. We were having coffee together in the kitchen, talking through the apartments we were going to tour. He’d scheduled five different options in neighborhoods he thought I’d love. Suddenly, Nate’s phone rang, the precinct’s number flashing on the screen.

“We need you to come in again for a few clarifications,” Detective Thompson said on the other end, his tone professional but not urgent. “Routine matters. Fact-checking. Verifying a few details from the statements. Nothing too complicated, but it’s necessary for the case.”

My stomach tightened instantly, like someone had cinched a hard knot right in the center of my abdomen. The breakfast I’d been enjoying seconds earlier suddenly lost all flavor, my mouth going dry. I’d thought the hardest part was over. I’d thought I could finally start processing the trauma in peace, at my own pace, without being forced to relive the most disturbing details of that terrible night.

“It’s incredibly traumatic to have to go over everything again,” I admitted to Nate as we drove to the station, watching the familiar London streets slide past the window without really seeing them. “Every time I have to tell the story again, it feels like I’m being dragged back into that room. Back into that feeling of desperation and vulnerability. Sometimes I just want to let it go, move on, and pretend none of this ever happened.”

It was true. Part of me wanted to erase James Morrison from existence. To pretend Alexandra had no power over my life. To forget that night altogether. I wanted to go back to the simplicity of worrying about work reports and which movie to watch with Nate in the evening.

Nate reached for my hand over the gearshift, squeezing it with steady reassurance, his fingers threading through mine in that way that always calmed me.

“I understand completely,” he said gently, the way he always did when I was vulnerable. “No one should have to relive trauma over and over just to satisfy legal bureaucracy. But I also know you’re strong enough to get through it. And more than that, I know you want to make sure James stays in prison for as long as possible, so he can never do to another woman what he almost did to you.”

He was right, of course. If my testimony could prevent someone else from suffering at James’s hands, then the personal discomfort was worth it.

The police station was a gray, institutional building that smelled of old coffee and industrial cleaning products. We learned that the case had grown far larger and more complex than either of us had initially expected.

“After James Morrison’s face appeared in the local papers,” Detective Thompson explained as he led us through narrow corridors to a conference room, “other women came forward. Three so far. All with disturbingly similar stories to yours.”

“That’s… does that strengthen the case against him?” I asked hesitantly, trying to process the legal implications while managing the emotional weight of it all.

“Very much so,” Thompson confirmed without hesitation. “Multiple victims with consistent evidence and a clear behavioral pattern make for an almost airtight case. With corroborating testimony and physical evidence in at least two of the other incidents, it’s highly unlikely he’ll avoid a serious conviction. We’re talking many

years.

The conversation was interrupted when David Richardson arrived. Nate’s lawyer who was an experienced criminal attorney he’d hired to represent me throughout the process, walked in carrying a thick folder and

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wearing an expression that couldn’t quite hide his frustration and concern. Richardson was known for his skill în complex criminal cases and his impressive success rate, which made his current look even more unsettling.

“Good news and bad news,” he said without preamble, taking a seat across from us at the conference table and arranging his documents with precise movements. “The good news, you’ve probably already heard from Detective Thompson. With the other victims coming forward and providing corroborating testimony, we have an extremely strong case against James Morrison.”

“And the bad news?” Nate asked, though his tone and body language suggested he already sensed where this was going.

Richardson paused, glanced at his notes, then looked up at us with a grave expression.

“James Morrison has said absolutely nothing about Alexandra Kensington,” Richardson said bluntly, without sugarcoating it. “After hours of interrogation, he’s maintained the same story from the beginning, that he acted entirely on his own. That the whole plan was his creation alone, with no involvement or knowledge from any third party.”

“That’s absolutely ridiculous!” I burst out, indignation and frustration burning through my chest like acid. ” And the photos that were sent to the company gossip group? How does he explain that part?”

Richardson glanced back down at his notes, flipping through several pages before finding what he was looking

for.

“According to James Morrison’s version,” he said carefully, “he sent the compromising photos to an ex- girlfriend as a way of bragging, proof of his ability to ‘conquer’ women from a higher social class. He claims this ex-girlfriend, motivated by revenge after a messy breakup, recognized you as a Kensington employee where she also works, and deliberately leaked the photos into the company group to cause maximum embarrassment and professional damage.”

Nate and I exchanged a look of complete disbelief, our silent communication saying exactly what we both thought about how absurdly convenient that explanation sounded.

“And the police actually believe that?” I asked, skepticism heavy in my voice.

“The story has a few elements that, unfortunately, do check out when investigated,” Richardson admitted, clearly reluctant. “We verified the digital trail, and technically, the first person to spread the photos in the employee group was not Alexandra Kensington. It was a marketing department employee named Rachel Williams, who, when questioned, was found to have documented personal connections to this supposed ex- girlfriend of James’s.”

“Of course it wasn’t Alexandra directly,” Nate snapped, frustration and tightly restrained anger sharpening his tone. “She’s far too smart to leave fingerprints on anything. She engineered the entire operation down to the smallest detail, manipulated the right people to do the dirty work for her, and kept her own hands completely clean of anything traceable.”

“I understand the logic, and I agree with your assessment,” Richardson said, his professional experience evident in his calm analysis. “But the legal system operates on concrete evidence and tangible proof, not deductions, no matter how accurate they may be. Without direct physical evidence linking Alexandra Kensington to the conspiracy, we have no solid legal ground to charge her with any specific crime.”

“Was she at least called in to give a statement?” I asked, clinging to whatever sliver of hope remained that some

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form of justice might still be possible.

“She was summoned and gave a formal statement yesterday,” Richardson confirmed. “She categorically denied any involvement or prior knowledge of the events. Claimed she was just as shocked and horrified as anyone else when she found out what had happened. She presented an alibi for the night in question and demonstrated full cooperation with the investigation. Without concrete evidence contradicting her testimony, there’s nothing we can do from a legal standpoint.”

“And the hotel evidence?” Nate pressed, clearly searching for any angle left to explore. “The Rosemont Hotel was fully cooperative from the very beginning. Surely the security footage would show Alexandra entering or leaving the room, or at least coordinating suspicious activity with James Morrison that night.”

Richardson paused for a long, heavy moment. His expression darkened even further, more troubled than it had been at any point in the conversation so far.

“That’s where our biggest problem lies,” he said slowly, as if reluctant to say the words out loud. “The security. footage from that night… simply disappeared.”

D

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