Hired a Gigolo Got a Billionaire (Zoey and Christian) novel Chapter 45

Chapter 45

The hospital lighting was merciless, that bluish-white glare that seemed to drain all life and color from people. I walked down the sterile corridor carrying a small thermal bag with a carefully wrapped sandwich and a thermos that felt heavy in my hand.

The hours since the ambulance had left were a blur. After the initial shock, my mind had gone into autopilot. I’d called the hospital reception, confirmed that Joseph had been admitted, and decided that staying alone at the mansion, spiraling in my thoughts, wouldn’t help anyone.

I found Christian exactly where the receptionist had said-in the waiting room of the cardiology ward. Sitting alone on one of the plastic chairs, elbows on his knees, his hands buried in his now completely disheveled hair. His once impeccable suit was wrinkled, his tie gone, the first buttons of his shirt undone.

He looked so… human.

I approached quietly, sitting down beside him without announcing myself. Christian lifted his head slowly, red, tired eyes widening in surprise when he saw me.

“Zoey,” he murmured, his voice hoarse as if he hadn’t spoken in hours. “What are you doing here?”

I set the bag down in the space between us.

“I brought you something to eat.” I pulled out the wrapped sandwich. “Figured you wouldn’t leave this place, not even to get food.”

A fragile smile, barely there, ghosted across his lips.

“Thank you, but I’m not hungry.”

“You need to eat,” I insisted gently, unwrapping it for him. “You won’t help your grandfather if you faint from hunger.”

Christian took the sandwich, staring at it without really seeing it.

“How is he?” I asked, keeping my voice low.

“I don’t know exactly.” He drew in a deep breath, dragging a hand down his face. “They’re running more tests. Apparently it was a severe angina episode.”

I pulled the thermos from the bag.

“I brought this too. Thought you might need it.”

He glanced at it, but shook his head.

“Not even coffee will go down right now. But… thank you.”

A small smile tugged at my lips as I unscrewed the lid.

“Who said it’s coffee?”

The look of surprise Christian shot me was worth every second it had taken to track down that thermos in the mansion’s kitchen.

He accepted it, and the subtle aroma of good whisky drifted into the air as he lifted it to his lips. A long sip, the burn sliding down his throat, exactly what he seemed to need at that moment.

“It’s against hospital rules,” he said, but he took another sip anyway.

“Good thing I disguised it well, then.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes, Christian alternating between small bites of the sandwich and sips of whisky. The tension in his shoulders eased little by little, though the worry still etched deep lines across his face.

“Your grandfather mentioned something about Valentia,” I said finally, breaking the silence. “About doctors. That’s why he went there, isn’t it? Not for business.”

Christian closed his eyes briefly, as if weighing how much he could reveal.

“Yes,” he admitted at last. “He went to see a specialist in Ravona. One of the best cardiologists in the world.” He raked a hand through his hair. “We’ve been dealing with this for almost a year. At first it was just mild episodes, manageable with medication. But they’re getting worse.”

“Why keep it a secret?” I asked softly.

“And if something happens to him before that?”

The look Christian gave me was full of something I’d never seen in him before-genuine fear.

“Control passes automatically to my cousin Anthony, who’s been married for five years.” His voice dropped. “He’s never cared about the winery, never worked a single day in the vineyards. But he’s married, so in my great- grandfather’s eyes, that makes him ‘stable.””

“What would he do with the winery?”

“Sell it.” The word came out like a death sentence. “Immediately, to the highest bidder. We’ve already had offers from major international conglomerates who would turn Kensington into just another label in their portfolio.”

Now I understood the gravity of the situation. It wasn’t just about Christian losing his inheritance. It was about every life intertwined with the winery.

“It’s not just about me,” he went on, as if reading my thoughts. “It’s families who’ve worked with us for generations. People whose parents and grandparents helped build what we are today. If Anthony sells, hundreds of jobs will be lost. Traditions gone. Knowledge that took decades to develop-thrown away for quick profit.”

The emotion in his voice was undeniable. For the first time, I saw clearly that, for Christian, the winery wasn’t just a business or a status symbol. It was responsibility, legacy, family-in the truest sense of the word.

“I never imagined…” I began, but stopped, not sure what to say.

“That I cared this much?” A tired smile tugged at his lips. “Most people don’t.”

I opened my mouth to say something, anything that could express this new understanding, but was interrupted by the arrival of a middle-aged doctor. His crisp white coat contrasted with the fatigue etched into his features.

“Mr. Kensington?” he called, stepping toward us.

Christian stood at once, his posture tense again.

“Dr. Mendes. How is he?”!