Hired a Gigolo Got a Billionaire (Zoey and Christian) novel Chapter 570

Chapter 570

Gwen’s POV

Screw it.

It was literally the only coherent thought I managed to form as I got off the bed and went straight to the closet.

Screw the time. Screw common sense. Screw waiting until tomorrow or thinking it through or doing any of the rational things a COO of a multinational company was supposed to do.

I was going to Montelira. Now. Tonight. Or technically tomorrow, since it was almost midnight, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that I was going.

I grabbed a small suitcase and started tossing things inside. Clothes. Any clothes. The first pair of jeans I saw, three random tops, enough underwear for a few days. Toiletries went straight from the bathroom drawer into my makeup bag without ceremony.

I zipped the suitcase shut with determination, pulled on the first comfortable outfit I could find, leggings and a sweatshirt because driving through the night demanded comfort, threw a coat over it, and went looking for my car keys.

They weren’t where I always left them.

I frowned and checked the hook by the door where my keys always, always hung.

Nothing.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered to the universe as I started searching the apartment.

Coffee table. No. Kitchen counter. No. Nightstand. No. My purse. No, because I’d switched bags and-

I found the keys inside the old purse still abandoned on the couch.

“Finally,” I said out loud, grabbing them with a surge of victory.

I went down to the building’s garage, tossed the suitcase onto the back seat, got into the car, and started the engine.

The GPS estimated an hour and a half to Montelira, considering it was late and there wouldn’t be any

traffic.

I pulled out of the garage with renewed determination.

That determination lasted exactly fifteen minutes, until I ran into a massive sign that read: ROADWORK.

DETOUR AHEAD.

“No,” I said to the sign, as if sheer willpower could make it disappear. “No, no, no.”

The sign remained stubbornly real, along with the orange cones blocking the road and the bored guard

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waving me toward the detour.

I followed the detour signs, which led me through side streets that were definitely not the fastest route. The GPS grew increasingly confused, recalculating every couple of minutes and ordering impossible U-

turns.

“Turn left in two hundred meters,” I mocked in the robotic GPS voice. “There is no left here, you digital idiot.”

Eventually, I managed to get back onto a main road and took a deep breath, trying to calm myself.

It was fine. Just a minor setback.

That was when it started to rain.

Not a light, romantic drizzle. No. A full-blown downpour that turned the windshield into a waterfall even with the wipers on high.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I yelled at the sky, slowing down because I could barely see the road.

Then the wind picked up, shaking the car in ways that were not even remotely comforting.

I was so focused on keeping the car steady, on trying to see through the curtain of water, that I almost didn’t hear it.

Thump thump thump thump.

A strange, rhythmic sound coming from somewhere in the car.

“No,” I whispered, recognizing it immediately. “Please, no.”

The car started pulling to the left. The steering wheel grew heavy in my hands.

A flat tire. Of course it was a flat tire.

Because apparently the universe had decided that tonight would be a personal comedy of errors, designed specifically to humiliate me.

I managed to pull over onto the shoulder, far enough off the road to avoid getting taken out by some lunatic truck driver barreling through the storm.

I turned off the engine and sat there for a moment, staring at the rain streaking down the windshield, seriously wondering if this was a sign that I should give up and go back to Florentia.

Then I remembered Bella’s face when she’d asked when I was coming back. The way Nick had ended the call. The hollow, empty feeling that had settled in me the moment I’d left Montelira.

“Screw it,” I said again as I opened the car door.

The rain hit me instantly, soaking me in seconds. The wind was even worse out there, driving the water sideways, every drop feeling like a tiny ice needle.

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I went to the trunk, wrestled it open against the wind, and found the spare tire and the jack.

I knew how to change a tire. In theory. I’d taken that defensive driving course years ago where they taught you these things.

In practice, under torrential rain, in the darkness of the early morning, with the wind trying to knock me

over…

I positioned the jack under the car. Or at least I thought I did. It was hard to tell with the only light coming from the hazard lights.

I started pumping the jack. The car began to lift. Progress.

Then the jack slipped.

The car slammed back down with a jolt that made me jump backward, my feet sliding in the mud that was forming around the tires.

I landed hard on the wet ground.

I sat there in the mud, under the rain, filthy and soaked, and started laughing.

Because it was either that or cry, and I’d cried enough for one night.

I tried again. The jack slipped again.

On the third attempt, I finally got the car up. I started loosening the lug nuts, but they were too tight. I put my full weight on the wrench, feeling my arm muscles scream.

One of the bolts gave way so suddenly that I lost my balance and fell again.

“This is not happening!” I yelled into the rain.

I gave up. Officially gave up on changing the tire myself.

I climbed back into the car, shaking with cold, and grabbed my phone. I called roadside assistance, hoping they could send a tow truck. The call dropped the first time. The second time, I finally got through.

“The estimated wait time is two to three hours,” the agent said in a flat voice. “The storm has caused multiple accidents in the area, and all our trucks are currently busy.”

Three hours. Waiting in the rain. In the cold.

No.

I scrolled through my contacts, looking for anyone, anyone who might come get me at this insane hour, and my finger stopped on one name.

He was going to laugh at me. He was going to make jokes. He was going to be unbearable.

But he would come.

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“Did you die?” Dante answered, his voice rough with sleep but without hesitation.

“Almost,” I said, my teeth starting to chatter. “I got a flat. I’m on the road to Montelira. Can you-”

“Send me your location,” he cut in, and I heard movement on his end. “I’m on my way.”

I sent it and slumped back into the driver’s seat.

It took Dante forty minutes. Forty minutes that felt like hours, sitting there shivering, watching the headlights of the occasional car pass without stopping.

When I finally saw his car pull up beside mine, I almost cried with relief. I grabbed my suitcase with shaking hands and ran to his car, yanking open the passenger door and practically collapsing into the seat, tracking mud and water all over the expensive leather upholstery.

Dante looked at me.

I was covered in mud from head to toe. My hair was dripping dirty water. My sweatshirt was brown instead of gray. There was grime under every one of my nails.

One corner of his mouth lifted in a smile.

“So,” he said, his voice thick with barely contained amusement, “Montelira or Florentia?”

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