Hired a Gigolo Got a Billionaire (Zoey and Christian) novel Chapter 432

Chapter 432

Marcus’ POV

Saying her name out loud felt like a confession I’d been carrying for years. There, in the darkness of the elevator, with Madeline curled against me, I finally spoke the name that had haunted my nightmares for more than a decade.

“Aria was…” I started, then stopped, searching for the right words. How do you explain to someone that a part of you left with another person? “She was my girlfriend when I was seventeen.”

I felt Madeline shift slightly in my arms, giving me space to speak without pressure. There was no judgment in her silence. Only patience.

“We’d been together for a few months,” I went on, letting the good memories surface for the first time in years. “She was… incredible. Smart, funny, determined in a way that sometimes intimidated me a little. She wanted to study veterinary medicine. She was completely in love with animals.”

Remembering the way her face lit up when she talked about her dreams still warmed something deep inside me, even after all this time.

“She used to say she’d open a clinic for abandoned animals,” I continued, my voice tinged with nostalgia. “She had everything planned out. Where it would be, how it would work, even how she’d raise money for emergency cases.”

I took a deep breath, approaching the hardest part of the story.

“It was a weekend, and I wanted to impress her,” I admitted, the familiar wave of shame rising. “Christian had just bought a new car. A beautiful convertible. He’d gone out to meet friends, and I… I took the car without asking.”

My voice dropped, heavy with guilt.

“I was seventeen, Madeline. I didn’t even have a driver’s license yet. But I wanted so badly to impress Aria. I wanted her to see me as mature, interesting. Back then, more than ever, I felt like I lived in my cousin’s shadow. To everyone. Almost everyone. But she saw me. You know?”

“Marcus…” Madeline murmured, but now that I’d started, I couldn’t stop.

“We went for a drive around the city. Aria was glowing, her hair flying in the wind, laughing at something I’d said.” The memory was so vivid I could almost hear her laughter again. “She had this laugh that lit up everything around her.”

I paused, bracing myself to relive the moment that had haunted me for years.

“We were on our way back when it happened. Early evening. I was driving slowly because I was nervous.” My voice began to shake. “Out of nowhere, a car came straight at us, going the wrong way. Completely out of control. Way too fast. We later found out the driver was drunk. Far over the legal limit.”

I felt Madeline tense in my arms.

“He crossed into our lane and… I didn’t have time to react. I didn’t know how to react. I was too inexperienced. Too young.” The words came out uneven, broken. “If I’d been older. If I’d had more practice. Maybe I could’ve

1/3

swerved. Maybe…”

“Marcus,” Madeline interrupted softly, “it wasn’t your fault.”

“That’s what everyone keeps saying,” I replied automatically. “And logically, I know the drunk driver was responsible. But there’s a difference between knowing something in your head and being able to forgive yourself in your heart.”

“There really is,” she said gently.

“I never should’ve taken that car. I had no license, no experience, and no permission.” Years of guilt spilled into my voice. “Christian trusted me. Treated me like a responsible younger brother. And I betrayed that trust. And because of that… because of my irresponsibility…”

I couldn’t finish the sentence.

“Did Aria die?” Madeline asked gently.

“On impact,” I murmured. “The doctor said it was instant. That she didn’t suffer. I broke two ribs and my left arm, but she… she was gone.”

We sat in silence for a few moments. I could feel Madeline absorbing everything I’d told her.

“And after that, you never let yourself truly get involved with anyone again,” she said. Not as a question, but as a realization.

“How could I?” I asked, my voice heavy with old pain. “How could I put someone else at risk when I’d already proven I couldn’t protect the person I loved?”

“Marcus,” Madeline said firmly, “you were seventeen. You were practically a kid trying to impress a girl. What happened was horrible, but you can’t carry responsibility for the decision of a drunk driver.”

“But if I hadn’t taken the car-”

“If you hadn’t taken the car, maybe you’d have been on the sidewalk at the wrong moment,” she cut in. “You can’t control other drivers. Even if you’d been eighteen, twenty-five, or thirty. Even if you were the most experienced driver in the world. You never know if the person in the other car is drunk, having a medical emergency, or losing control for some other reason.”

Her words made sense. And still…

“Some things are out of our control,” she continued, her voice carrying a quiet wisdom shaped by her own experiences. “And as painful as it is to accept that, especially when we lose someone we love, the truth is you are not responsible for the destructive choices of others.”

I closed my eyes, trying to let her words sink in. It was strange how, coming from her, they landed differently than all the other times I’d heard similar arguments. Maybe because she, too, knew what it was like to have her life overturned by someone else’s choices.

“Even knowing that logically,” I murmured, “the fear stayed. And it shaped every decision I made after that.”

“How?”

2/3

“Every time I got involved with a woman after that,” I confessed, “I made sure it was clear it was just for fun. Nothing serious. No real emotional commitment. No truly caring. Because if it ever got to the point where I cared enough to want to protect her, I didn’t know if I could. And what if she became the next Aria?”

I felt Madeline tense in my arms.

“You always cared anyway, didn’t you?” she asked softly. “Because I can look at you and see that you’re the kind of man who cares, no matter how much you’ve spent your life pretending you don’t.”

Her observation hit me straight in the chest. She was right. Even in the most casual relationships, I always made sure they got home safely. I always worried about their well-being.

“It was always easier to pull away than to admit that,” I said, feeling like I was stripping myself bare emotionally in front of her.

“And with me?” Her question came quietly, but it sliced through the air. “Is that what you’re going to do to me too? Pull away when it gets easier than staying?”

Comments

Support

Share

+2

3/3