Hired a Gigolo Got a Billionaire (Zoey and Christian) novel Chapter 523

Chapter 523

Gwen’s POV

I adjusted my car’s rearview mirror as Christian’s voice echoed through the speakerphone, repeating-for the third time-the details of the fake identity we’d built together.

“Gwen Parker,” my brother recited with exaggerated patience. “Digital marketing consultant specializing in rural tourism. Lombard School of Economics. Worked on campaigns for small businesses in Castoria and is now looking for new clients to build an independent portfolio.”

“I know, Christian,” I sighed, swerving around a truck crawling up the narrow road at a glacial pace. “I know.”

“I know you know,” Christian said, pausing meaningfully. “But this is the first time you’re doing something like this, Gwen. I need to be sure everything goes smoothly.”

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel, the soft leather giving slightly beneath my gloved fingers. I knew exactly what he wasn’t saying-that he usually relied on Marcus for missions like this. Or on Nathaniel, when extra subtlety was required. That I, as Kensington’s youngest COO, was normally safe behind a desk, analyzing financial reports and coordinating corporate strategies.

But not this time.

This time, Marcus was off living his life, and Christian needed someone the Valemonts couldn’t connect to the Kensingtons. Someone who could assess the situation from the inside, with absolute discretion. And I was determined to prove I was just as capable as my cousins.

“We’re using your middle name-your mother’s surname,” Christian continued, like he was reading off a grocery list. “No mention of Kensington, no-”

“Christian,” I cut in, unable to hide my frustration. “Relax. I have it all memorized. And modesty aside, I trained with Meryl Streep.”

There was a beat of silence on the other end.

“Seriously?”

“Of course,” I said, a mischievous smile slipping out. “I binge-watched all her movies fifty-seven times.”

Christian’s deep laugh crackled through the connection, finally breaking the tension between us.

“Alright, future Oscar nominee,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “I trust you.”

“Just don’t forget the signal there is supposedly awful,” I reminded him, spotting the first signs for Montelira. “If I don’t check in for a few days, no need to send in the cavalry. In a week-like we planned- I’ll be back with all the information you need.”

“Be careful, Gwen. And remember-”

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“Don’t draw attention, just be a tourist interested in local businesses, blah blah blah,” I finished for him.” Got it, boss. Now I’m hanging up because the road’s getting snowy and I’d rather not become a traffic statistic.”

“Gwen-”

“Bye, Christian!”

I ended the call before my brother could add another recommendation to his endless list. The silence that followed was filled only by the soft hum of the engine and the muted crunch of tires against packed

snow.

I slowed down, letting my eyes take in the landscape shifting around me. Castoria in winter was nothing like the postcard-perfect images splashed across travel magazines. Without golden sunflower fields or grapevines heavy with fruit, the region revealed a rawer beauty-almost melancholic.

Rolling hills stretched beneath an uneven blanket of snow, dotted here and there with dark cypress trees standing like solitary sentinels. The vineyards, stripped bare, formed precise geometric patterns along the slopes-row after row of twisted trunks patiently waiting for spring. In the distance, wrapped in silvery mist, the medieval towers of Montelira rose like something out of a forgotten fairy tale.

It was beautiful. Almost magical.

But also treacherous.

I noticed how the sky, which only moments ago had held streaks of pale blue, was now sealing itself into a solid curtain of gray. Snowflakes began to fall more heavily, swirling through the air before landing on the windshield and melting under the steady sweep of the wipers.

The GPS chimed softly and signaled a left turn ahead. I turned onto a secondary road-if you could even call it a road. It was more like a wide dirt path, compacted and uneven, lined with ancient cypress trees whose branches bent under the weight of accumulated snow.

Five hundred meters ahead, a rustic wooden sign swayed gently in the wind:

Valemont Estate-Wines & Lodging

My heart sped up just a little.

This was it.

The car struggled up the gentle incline, the tires slipping now and then on the slick surface. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel, mentally thanking every defensive driving lesson I’d taken years ago and never imagined I’d actually need.

At last, the path opened into a small, improvised parking area. Ahead stood the main building of the estate: a two-story stone villa with moss-green shutters and wrought-iron balconies that probably offered breathtaking views in the summer. Dry vines clung to the walls, and smoke drifted lazily from a chimney, dissolving into the icy air.

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Then my head struck the stone step with a hollow, sickening sound.

And everything went dark.

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