Hired a Gigolo Got a Billionaire (Zoey and Christian) novel Chapter 567

Chapter 567

Nicholas’ POV

“Daddy, look!”

Bella ran up to me holding a drawing she had just finished. It was full of bright crayon colors and showed what looked like three figures: her, me, and a third person with long hair and something that

looked like a star on her neck.

“It’s beautiful, sweetheart,” I said, taking the paper to look more closely. “Who’s this one?”

“Gwen!” Bella answered like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I drew us watching Miraculous, remember?”

Of course I remembered.

That afternoon on the couch. The three of us squeezed under a blanket that was way too small. Bella in heaven. Completely unaware of the electric tension between me and Gwen.

“It’s perfect,” I said honestly. “Let’s put it on the fridge.”

Bella nodded enthusiastically and ran toward the kitchen, probably to show Grandma first before hanging it up with the magnets beside all the other drawings already covering the old refrigerator.

I stayed where I was for a moment, watching my daughter disappear down the hallway, her laughter echoing through the villa.

It had been like this for the past thirty-something days.

Bella mentioned Gwen constantly.

Asked when she was coming back.

If she had forgotten about us.

If they were still real friends or if the necklace she wore every day had lost its meaning.

And every time she asked, I felt that familiar tightness in my chest. That mix of longing, frustration, and something deeper I didn’t want to name.

Gwen texted.

Not a lot, but sometimes.

Funny pictures she found online and thought I’d like. Memes about wine or country life that reminded her of me. She asked how Bella was doing. How things were at the inn. If the snow had finally melted.

They were surface-level conversations that were completely wrong for two people who had done what we had done that last night.

1/4

Because I still remembered.

Every detail, with a clarity that should have faded by now but stubbornly hadn’t.

The way she fit in my arms.

The sound of her breathing.

The taste of her skin.

The way she said my name when-

I shook my head, forcing the thoughts away. It didn’t help to relive it. It didn’t change anything.

She lived in Florentia, immersed in a world I barely understood.

And I was here, stuck in these mountains by choice and by necessity, running an inn that barely stayed afloat.

There was no future for us.

There couldn’t be.

Even if I wanted one. And God, how I wanted one.

She would never give up her life to live in the middle of nowhere.

And I couldn’t abandon my mother, my daughter, or this place that was all that remained of my family’s legacy.

I took out my phone and looked at her last message from three days ago.

It was a meme of a puppy accidentally drinking wine and making a ridiculous face.

I’d replied with a heart emoji and a joke about how he’d probably love our homemade wine. She’d laughed. Or at least, she’d sent laughing emojis. And then the conversation had died right there.

It always did.

At some point, it always faded out.

Because neither of us was willing to have the real conversation. The one about what that night had meant. About whether it meant anything more than two adults giving in to an obvious physical attraction.

I slipped my phone back into my pocket and went to check the week’s reservations.

Three rooms booked from Monday to Thursday.

A nearly full weekend thanks to a group of cyclists who had chosen the region for a tour.

It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t enough.

2/4

It never was.

I was in the middle of reviewing the month’s accounts when I heard a car pull into the courtyard.

It was a smooth, expensive engine, not the kind our guests usually drove.

I stood and went to the window, that familiar knot tightening in my stomach.

It was a new black Mercedes that was shiny, even under a thin layer of road dust.

And the man who stepped out of it was wearing a suit that probably cost more than I made in three

months.

Damn it.

I recognized the type immediately. Not personally, but professionally.

I’d seen plenty like him over the years.

Bank representatives.

Debt collectors.

Men who arrived with polite smiles and gentle words that hid very real threats.

I went downstairs quickly, intercepting him before he could walk inside and potentially scare the guests. Or worse, my mother.

“Mr. Valemont?” he asked, extending his hand with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“That’s me,” I said, shaking it briefly.

“Alexander Foster, from Castoria Capital Bank,” he introduced himself, handing me a business card. “May

we speak privately?”

It wasn’t really a question.

I led him into the small office next to reception. Closed the door. Crossed my arms. Waited.

Foster didn’t waste time.

“Mr. Valemont, I’m here regarding the loan taken out by Valemont Estate in March of 2022,” he began, pulling documents from his expensive leather briefcase. “You are currently three payments behind. The total outstanding balance, including interest and penalties, is forty-two thousand dollars.”

Forty-two thousand.

The number hit me like a punch to the gut, even though I already knew it was close to that.

“We’re working on it,” I said, keeping my voice steady while panic flared inside me. “We had a difficult winter. Fewer tourists than expected. But spring season is starting and-”

3/4

“Mr. Valemont,” Foster interrupted, still polite but firm, “I understand the difficulties. Truly. But the bank also has obligations. We cannot continue extending deadlines indefinitely.”

He placed another paper on the desk between us.

“This is a formal notice. You have sixty days to settle the debt or present a concrete, viable payment plan. If you are unable to do so…” He paused meaningfully. “The bank will be forced to begin foreclosure proceedings.”

Foreclosure.

A nice word for taking everything.

“Sixty days,” I repeated, my voice rougher than I intended.

“Sixty days,” Foster confirmed, already packing up his papers and standing. “I sincerely hope you can resolve this, Mr. Valemont. It would be a shame to see a property with so much history change hands this way.”

He left, the notice still lying on the desk.

And I stood there staring at that piece of paper like it was a death sentence.

Forty-two thousand dollars, in sixty days.

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