Hired a Gigolo Got a Billionaire (Zoey and Christian) novel Chapter 342

Chapter 342

Alexandra’s POV

The hotel ballroom was absolutely breathtaking. Crystal chandeliers spilled golden light over elegantly dressed guests drifting between tables adorned with white and green floral arrangements that echoed the event’s environmental theme. I smiled with satisfaction as I took it all in. Hundreds of important people were gathered in one place, completely unaware of the fireworks they were about to witness.

1

hosen a blood-red Valentino gown for the occasion, a deliberately provocative choice that stood out against the more conservative tones around me. I wanted to be noticed. I wanted everyone to remember me on this historic night.

I moved through the room with the confidence of someone holding privileged information, greeting acquaintances with calculated smiles while my mind mapped out the next moves. Every conversation, every handshake, every exchanged glance was part of a carefully orchestrated symphony that was nearing its devastating climax.

I spotted Annabelle and Nate near the head table. She was glowing in an emerald-green dress that, I had to admit, fit her perfectly, while he was flawless in a tuxedo. The perfect couple. They were the picture of prosperity and marital bliss. How delicious it would be to watch that façade crumble in public.

“Alexandra,” Nate greeted when I approached, his tone polite but just slightly tense.

“Nathaniel. Annabelle,” I replied with my most charming smile. “I must congratulate you on the engagement. I truly hope it lasts longer than the stability of Kensington’s stock.

I saw Annie’s brow crease ever so slightly, clearly trying to decide whether my words carried a veiled threat. Nate, on the other hand, kept his expression neutral, though I noticed his fingers tighten subtly around his champagne flute.

“Thank you for the well wishes,” Annie said diplomatically.

“Oh, my dear, they’re completely sincere,” I assured her, lightly touching her arm in a theatrical show of affection. “You both deserve all the happiness you can get… while it lasts.”

11

I let the words hang in the air for a moment before moving on, savoring the almost tangible tension I’d left behind. Just an appetizer for what was coming.

I crossed the room and found Christian and Zoey speaking with a group of investors near the bar. Zoey looked stunning, as always, overseeing every detail of the event with the professional efficiency that had earned her so much respect within the company.

“Zoey, darling,” I said, smoothly inserting myself into the conversation. “The event is impeccable, as always. I’m absolutely certain tonight will be memorable in every possible way.”

“Thank you, Alexandra,” Zoey replied with polished cordiality. “We’re hoping it’s a special night for everyone. Especially for you!”

“Oh, it will be unforgettable,” I confirmed, my smile widening. “Completely unforgettable.”

Christian shot me a sharp look, clearly trying to read my intentions. He’d always been too perceptive for his own good. But this time, even his strategic mind wouldn’t be enough to stop what was coming.

1/3

+25 Bonus

I drifted away from the group and began making my rounds among the most influential investors in attendance. I’d spent hours studying the guest list, identifying the most strategic targets-people whose reactions could trigger maximum financial panic in the shortest possible time.

I approached Sir Edmund Hartwell, one of Kensington’s oldest and most influential shareholders, who was chatting with his wife near the windows overlooking a dazzling, illuminated London skyline.

“Sir Edmund,” I said in a confidential tone, positioning myself so only he could hear. “May I have a private

d?”

He stepped slightly away from his wife, clearly intrigued by my discreet approach.

“I’ve just come out of a meeting with extremely serious information about the company,” I whispered, adopting the air of someone reluctantly sharing sensitive intelligence. “I strongly suggest you sell your shares before the market opens tomorrow. The stock is going to plummet, and you know I’m never wrong about these things.”

I watched his eyes widen, concern instantly replacing his initial curiosity. Sir Edmund had built much of his fortune by acting on exactly this kind of privileged tip over the years.

“Are you absolutely certain?” he asked, his voice low but charged with urgency.

“Unfortunately, yes,” I replied with feigned sadness. “Information that reached me just today. It’s devastating, but anyone who acts quickly can still minimize their losses.”

I repeated versions of that same conversation with at least six other major investors over the next hour, always choosing discreet moments, always adopting the tone of someone sharing sensitive information out of personal loyalty. With growing satisfaction, I watched each exchange send ripples of anxiety through the room. There were urgent whispers, worried glances, and phones discreetly checked.

Financial panic was like a virus. Once planted, it spread naturally through the social and professional networks of powerful men. By the end of the night, dozens of people would be planning to dump their Kensington shares at the first opportunity.

Around ten o’clock, it was time for the final move.

I scanned the room until I spotted my special contact, the international journalist I’d carefully cultivated through strategic correspondence. Mark Brennan of the Financial Tribune, a respected publication with circulation across Euradia.

Our previous emails had perfectly set the stage for tonight. He was eager for the exclusive I’d promised, a story that would make his career and simultaneously destroy Kensington’s reputation beyond repair.

“Brennan,” I said, approaching him with absolute confidence. “I hope you’re ready for the story of your life.”

Discreetly, I slid a slim leather envelope into his hands. Inside were copies of every document Marcus had given me-falsified reports, incriminating emails, more than enough evidence to spark a scandal that would take down not just the new product line, but potentially the entire wine division.

“This is exactly what we discussed,” I whispered, leaning in so only he could hear. “If you publish tonight, it’ll be the story of the year. You’ll thank me forever for this exclusive.”

Brennan took the envelope, but his expression remained oddly neutral. I’d expected excitement. Hunger. A rush to peek inside.

2/3

Instead, he looked almost… resigned.

“Are you sure you want to go through

this?” he asked quietly.

The question caught me off guard. We’d gone over every detail for weeks. Why hesitate now?

“Of course I’m sure,” I snapped, irritation bleeding through. “This is exactly the plan.”

That was when Mark did something completely unexpected.

With deliberately slow movements, he removed the press badge hanging from his neck and slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket. Then, with the same measured calm, he pulled out a small leather wallet and opened it, revealing a gold badge that caught the ballroom lights.

“Alexandra Kensington,” he said, his voice now carrying unmistakable authority, “you are under arrest for market manipulation, insider trading, and attempted corporate fraud.”

The world tilted.

The noise of the room faded into a dull, distant hum as my mind struggled to keep up.

“You… you’re not a journalist,” I managed, my voice weaker than I’d ever heard it.

“Detective, Metropolitan Police,” he replied, subtly signaling to other men I suddenly noticed positioned throughout the ballroom. “And you’ve just handed me direct evidence of serious financial crimes.”

The truth hit me like an avalanche.

I hadn’t just been caught, I’d walked straight into a trap so perfectly constructed that I’d personally supplied every piece of evidence needed to destroy myself.

As cold handcuffs snapped around my wrists, my final coherent thought was a reluctant admiration for the elegance of the plan that had brought me down.

What comforted me was knowing I’d still left one little surprise waiting for Annabelle and Nathaniel when they got home.

Comments

Support

Share

3/3