Hired a Gigolo Got a Billionaire (Zoey and Christian) novel Chapter 497

Chapter 497

Madeline’s POV

“Spam,” I answered too quickly, slipping the phone back into the pocket of my hospital robe before Marcus could see the screen. “Just spam.”

But I saw the way his eyes narrowed slightly. The way his jaw tightened.

Marcus knew me too well. He knew when I was lying.

He didn’t say anything, though. Not then. He only nodded slowly and turned his attention back to the security guard who was showing us more camera footage.

The next few hours passed in a blur.

Police arrived. A lot of police. They asked questions. So many questions. When was the last time we saw Aurora? Why was she in the nursery? Who knew we were at the hospital? Did we have enemies? Had anyone made threats recently?

I answered everything mechanically. Yes, we had an enemy. Dominic Blackwood. No, he hadn’t made any direct threats recently-but his very existence was a threat. Yes, he was capable of this. He was capable of anything.

Marcus stayed by my side through the entire interrogation, holding my hand, answering when I couldn’t find the words. But every so often, I felt his eyes on me. Studying me. Trying to figure out what I was

hiding.

One of the officers assured us they were doing everything possible. Roadblocks. Airport alerts. A full investigation into Dominic Blackwood’s background. But as he spoke, I could feel Marcus growing more

tense beside me.

Eventually-after what felt like hours-the police left to “continue the investigation.” They said they’d be back with updates. They told us not to worry.

Not to worry.

As if that were even possible.

For a moment, the corridor was empty again. Just the two of us, heavy silence between us, broken only by the distant sounds of the hospital waking up with dawn.

“Marcus,” I said quietly. “Do you think we can trust these cops?”

He looked at me, surprise flashing in his eyes for a brief second before being replaced by something

darker.

“Why do you ask?”

“Because…” I took a deep breath, organizing my thoughts. “Because when it comes to Dominic, he’s

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always one step ahead. He always has a plan. Don’t you think he would’ve prepared for the moment we found out? That maybe he already has people in place, waiting to handle the case? To control the

narrative?”

I watched Marcus’s jaw tighten. He ran a hand down his face, exhausted, and when he looked at me again, there was brutal honesty in his eyes.

“When it comes to Dominic,” he said carefully, his voice low and steady, “we can’t trust anyone. Anyone except ourselves and our family. He has money, connections, power. If he wanted to plant someone inside the police to control the investigation…” He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.

I nodded slowly, feeling something heavy settle in my chest.

“So what do we do?”

“Let the police do their job,” Marcus said. “But we’ll do ours too. We have our own resources. Our own contacts. We’ll find her, Madeline. With or without the police.”

I wanted to believe him. I wanted to cling to the certainty in his voice. But as I nodded, my hand moved unconsciously to the pocket where my phone was.

‘Come alone.’

Maybe Marcus was right. Maybe we couldn’t trust anyone. Not the police. Not even family.

Maybe the best option… was exactly what the message said.

Eventually, they made me go back to the room. Dr. Helena insisted, saying I needed to rest, to recover. My “psychological state” was concerning, according to her. They wanted to keep me under observation.

As if I could rest. As if I could recover while my daughter was out there-with that monster.

I didn’t argue. I went back to the room. Let them settle me into the bed again. Let them check my blood pressure, my stitches. Marcus stayed beside me the entire time, sitting in the chair next to the bed, holding my hand.

A nurse brought a sedative. Placed the pill in my palm and handed me a glass of water.

“It’ll help you get some rest,” she said gently.

I lifted the pill to my mouth, took a sip of water, tilted my head back as if swallowing. The nurse smiled, satisfied, and left the room.

The moment the door closed, I turned my head and discreetly spat the pill into my palm, hiding it beneath the pillow.

I’d learned that trick at the clinic.

When Dominic had committed me to that horrible place, trying to drug me into submission, I’d learned very quickly how to pretend to take medication. How to hide pills. How to look sleepy and compliant while staying perfectly lucid.

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Useful then. Even more useful now.

The day dragged on. Marcus didn’t leave my side for a single second. Christian came by at some point with clean clothes and coffee. Joseph came too, his face heavy with worry, murmuring blessings in Valentian while holding my hand. Olivia and my mother arrived together, both crying, wanting to hug me,

to comfort me.

I let them.

I let them say comforting words that meant nothing. Let them promise everything would be okay.

But deep down, I knew. I knew it wouldn’t be okay. Not unless I did something.

In the middle of the afternoon, exhaustion finally caught up with Marcus. His eyes grew heavy. His head tilted slightly.

“Rest,” I whispered. “I’m fine. I’ll sleep a little too.”

He fought it for a few more minutes, but eventually fatigue won. I watched as his breathing deepened, as the tension left his face, as he finally slipped into sleep.

I waited.

I counted to five hundred in my head, just to be sure.

Then, with painfully careful movements, I started to get out of bed.

Every motion was calculated. Every breath controlled. I couldn’t wake him. I couldn’t let him find out.

My feet touched the cold floor. Pain flared, sharp and immediate-but I ignored it. Pain didn’t matter.

Aurora was all that mattered.

Marcus’s blazer was draped over the chair. I moved toward it slowly, barely breathing, and slipped my hand into the inside pocket.

The car keys.

I took them carefully, making sure they didn’t make a sound, and tucked them into my pocket. Marcus didn’t stir. He slept deeply as he was exhausted from hours without rest, from stress and fear and

desperation.

‘Forgive me, my love. But I have to do this alone.’

I grabbed a change of clothes and turned toward the door, every step deliberate. My hand was on the doorknob when I pulled my phone from my pocket, opening the message for what felt like the

thousandth time.

The words glowed on the screen-simple and direct: a date, a time, an address. And the instruction:

[Come alone.]

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