Hired a Gigolo Got a Billionaire (Zoey and Christian) novel Chapter 366

Chapter 366

Madeline’s POV

Silence.

That was all that remained between us after I finished telling my story. My words still seemed to hang in the

m tropical night air, blending with the distant sound of the waves and the low murmur of other couples dining at nearby tables. I kept my eyes fixed on the wineglass in front of me, watching the candlelight shimmer in the dark red liquid, because looking at Apollo right then felt impossible.

I’d told him everything. Or almost everything.

I’d talked about the betrayal I discovered on what should have been the happiest day of my life. About finding my fiancé, whose real name I never mentioned, with the woman I believed was my best friend, plotting to use my marriage as currency in a game far bigger than anything I’d ever imagined. I’d talked about my parents, about realizing they not only knew everything but were willing accomplices, ready to sacrifice me for the so- called “greater good” of the family.

I hadn’t gone into specifics. I hadn’t mentioned Sullivan Parks. I hadn’t talked about illegal casinos. I hadn’t named names. But I’d told him about the pain.

About what it felt like to realize that two of the people I trusted most in the world had never truly loved me. That I’d only ever been a convenient piece on a board they’d been playing for years.

My voice had cracked more than once as I spoke. At times, I’d had to stop entirely, take a deep breath, and force the words out. My hands shook when I talked about hearing their plans through a half-open door, about how casually they discussed my future as if I were property to be negotiated.

“In the end,” I said, finally lifting my eyes from the glass to look at him, “I realized I was never a bride. I was just the most valuable bargaining chip in a game I never chose to play.” I swallowed. “And the worst part? The worst part was that my feelings clearly didn’t understand the scale of it all because… because when I stopped to think about it, he was still the man I loved. The man I was supposed to marry. And she was still my best friend.”

Apollo didn’t respond right away. He’d stayed silent through my entire confession, but I’d noticed his physical reactions, the way his fingers slowly curled into fists on the table, the muscle that tightened in his jaw when I talked about the betrayal, the way his eyes narrowed when I mentioned my parents’ complicity.

“Then don’t think,” he finally said. “That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”

Now he was watching me with an intensity that was both unsettling and comforting. There was no pity in his eyes, which I appreciated. There was something deeper instead-understanding, maybe. Or recognition.

“I get it,” he said at last, his voice low but steady. “The weight of a last name can swallow your identity. At some point, you stop being a person. You become a title. A piece of the family empire.”

His words hit me harder than I expected. This wasn’t generic sympathy. It was specific. Raw. As if he understood not because he was imagining it, but because he’d lived it.

“You talk like someone who knows,” I said carefully.

He hesitated for a moment, as if weighing how much he could reveal without breaking our agreement.

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“Let’s just say…” he said slowly, “I also know what it’s like to live under the weight of family expectations.”

There were layers in his answer I couldn’t fully decipher. Who was he, really? Someone from an influential family too? Someone who, like me, wasn’t just running from a specific past, but from a name, a legacy, responsibilities he’d never asked for?

I thought about asking. About using that shared moment of vulnerability to push past a few more barriers tween us. But something stopped me. If he was also running from a last name, from an identity that

suffocated him, then he deserved the same respect he’d given me. He deserved to keep his secrets until he chose to reveal them.

“It’s liberating, isn’t it?” I said instead. “Being able to just… be ourselves. No last names. No family history. No weight of expectations.”

“More liberating than I ever imagined,” he admitted, and there was something almost melancholy in his voice.

We fell silent again, but this time it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence shared by two people who had recognized something essential in each other, even without knowing all the details.

The restaurant around us carried on with its normal rhythm. But our table seemed to exist inside a separate bubble, one where confessions had been shared and unspoken understandings quietly settled into place.

“You know,” I said at last, trying to lighten the emotional weight of the moment, “I think this calls for a toast.”

“To what?” he asked, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

I lifted my half-full wineglass and held it between us.

“To not having a last name for a week.”

For a moment, Apollo just looked at me. Then his gaze shifted to the bottle of wine on the table. It was a Kensington with a gold label that, judging by the sommelier’s reverent tone, was clearly anything but cheap. There was something almost ironic in his smile when he finally picked up his own glass.

“To not having a last name,” he echoed, raising his wine.

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