Hired a Gigolo Got a Billionaire (Zoey and Christian) novel Chapter 577

Chapter 577

Gwen’s POV

“So… hypothetically…” I said, staring at my own exhausted face on my phone screen, “if I had promised to save a failing inn in the middle of nowhere, what would you do first?”

My hair was in a crooked bun on top of my head, and the mug of coffee beside me had already been reheated in the microwave three times.

On the other end of the video call, Zoey froze mid-sip of wine.

“Sorry,” she said slowly, taking off her sunglasses like she’d just heard a criminal confession. “Did you just say save a failing inn in the middle of nowhere?”

Her camera shifted slightly, changing angles. Behind her looked like a Kensington commercial come to life: a pool glittering under the sun in the hills of southern Verdania, vineyards cascading down the slope like they’d been hand-combed.

I squinted.

“Are you… at the pool?”

“I’m in a strategic meeting,” Zoey replied, dead serious, floating on a giant grape-shaped inflatable. “This wine and I are discussing happiness metrics. Now repeat the part about the inn.”

I buried my face in my free hand.

“I screwed up.”

“That’s not news, babe. Be specific.”

I took a deep breath before starting.

“You know, after the whole memory-loss mess and the way I got close to Nick…”

“And the sex by the fireplace,” Zoey cut in with a knowing grin.

I rolled my eyes.

“The point is, I didn’t tell him the whole truth. He still thinks I’m a digital marketing consultant

specializing in rural tourism. I can’t exactly say, ‘Oh, by the way, I’m a Kensington and I was actually there to see if my brother should buy your land.””

Zoey went quiet for a moment, processing.

“Digital marketing consultant specializing in rural tourism,” she repeated slowly. “Gwen. You can’t even post a cat photo without asking three people for approval first.”

“I know, Zoey!” I groaned, flopping back onto the couch and making the image shake. “And you can thank your husband for getting me into this in the first place. But now… I promised. I promised I could help. I

told him I knew exactly how to save Valemont Estate.”

“So you called me to help you keep your lie alive,” Zoey concluded.

“I called you because you’re in PR and you’re the closest thing I have to someone who actually understands what to do in a crisis,” I said in one breath. “I need a plan. A framework. A mental PowerPoint. Anything that makes me sound even remotely competent.”

Zoey rested her chin on her arm atop the float, studying me with that look she got when she was deciding whether to help or lecture me first.

“Okay,” she said at last. “Let’s organize this chaos. What do you know about the inn?”

“That it’s small, family-run, attached to the winery,” I listed. “That almost no one stays there outside of holidays. That they rely heavily on word of mouth. And that their website looks like it was built in 2005.”

“And you still promised to save it?”

“Have I mentioned that I panicked?”

Zoey smiled to the side, the kind of smile that said she found the whole situation deeply entertaining but would help me anyway because we were friends.

“Alright. First thing a real consultant would do is a diagnosis,” she said, slipping into lecturer mode. “You

need data.”

“Diagnosis I can do,” I muttered.

“Great,” Zoey said, raising a pool-wet finger for emphasis. “When you get there, ask about monthly occupancy rates, where guests come from, how much revenue comes from the inn versus the winery, what marketing channels they use now, whether they have partnerships with travel agencies. Ask smart questions. You’re good at asking smart questions.”

I sighed, feeling a small wave of relief for the first time.

“That part I can do. Asking questions is my specialty,” I said. “Not answering them too.”

Zoey laughed.

“Second thing: digital presence.”

“Digital… what now?”

“I’ve been sunbathing and drinking wine for three hours. You’re lucky I’m still forming sentences,” she said with a shrug. “Anyway, you’re going to look at their website, Instagram, Google, TripAdvisor, all of that. Just cleaning that up already looks like a miracle to people who are doing absolutely nothing.”

I frowned.

“But I don’t know how to work on a website…”

“You don’t need to touch code, Einstein,” Zoey cut in. “You just need to know how to point out what looks awful. You send photos, screenshots, and I’ll tell you what needs fixing. You become the marketing messenger pigeon.”

I stared at the screen, processing.

“So you’re proposing to be my ghost consultant?”

“I’m proposing an international Verdania-Valentia collaborative project,” Zoey said, raising her glass in an imaginary toast. “You over there pretending you know what you’re doing, me over here actually knowing. Everyone wins.”

I groaned, covering my face with my hands.

“I don’t know if I can keep lying to him, Zoey. It feels wrong.’

“Babe, relax,” she said, her voice softening. “You’re not there to scam the guy or destroy the place. You genuinely want to help. You just can’t say, ‘Hi, I’m the Kensington who was here to see if we should buy your land.’ So technically, you’re just a consultant with a slight… résumé upgrade.”

“A slight upgrade like ‘I’m the person who signs half the reports at the company that could buy his entire property,” I muttered.

Zoey shrugged, the pool water rippling around her.

“Details. We deal with the moral implications in the epilogue. Right now, focus on the practical plan.”

She started counting on her fingers.

“One: diagnosis. Covered. Two: packages.”

“Packages?”

“Yes. You do this in your sleep at Kensington, Gwen. You just adapt it to a smaller budget.”

“Okay,” I admitted. “Packages I can do. And catchy names too.”

“Three: experience,” she continued. “You look at what they already offer and improve it with simple things. Decent signage. A photogenic corner for Instagram. A minimally marked trail through the vineyards. You don’t need fireworks or massive investments. You just need to do the basics really well.”

I started typing frantically into a notes app, trying to capture everything before it vanished from my brain.

“You make it sound easy.”

Zoey gave me a lazy smile.

“It’s not easy. But it’s completely doable. And you’re not alone, remember? You’ve got a brilliant PR strategist right here, with access to journalists, digital influencers, and a fantastic pool for brainstorming

sessions.”

“So modest.”

“I never promised modesty,” she said, adjusting her sunglasses. “Oh, and item four: if the inn is even remotely presentable, you can pitch a press story. Something like ‘Family winery bets on rural tourism to survive competition from industry giants.’ Journalists love a David versus Goliath story.”

I froze.

“Small versus big,” I repeated slowly, feeling it land somewhere uncomfortable. “Except the ‘giant’ trying to crush them is literally… me.”

Zoey looked at me through the screen, her tone gentler now.

“You’re not the villain in this story, Gwen. You’re doing everything you can to help them.”

But no matter how much Zoey said that, the feeling that I was playing on both sides of the board refused to go away.

D

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