Hired a Gigolo Got a Billionaire (Zoey and Christian) novel Chapter 580

Chapter 580

Gwen’s POV

“The idea is simple,” I began, looking at the three faces around the table. “We’re changing the location of tomorrow night’s dinner. Guests can be taken up in the tour truck or go by bike, whichever they prefer. No extra costs. The food stays exactly the same. Martina’s amazing cooking. Just served somewhere.

different.”

We were sitting in the villa’s kitchen, gathered around the large wooden table, steaming cups of tea in everyone’s hands, the clock on the wall creeping toward ten p.m. Nick sat across from me, Martina to my right, Paula to my left. All of them watching me with varying degrees of curiosity and skepticism.

“And the guests are going to eat on the ground?” Paula asked, her voice heavy with doubt and irony.’ Because I don’t remember there being any tables up there.”

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“We can improvise some tables using the wood and barrels you keep in the shed,” I replied quickly. “But picnic-style setups with blankets are actually a great idea, Paula, thank you.”

I said it with a genuine smile, fully aware that wasn’t exactly what she’d meant. But if I was going to work with these people, I needed to include them, make them feel part of the process. Especially Paula, who

clearly still had reservations about me.

“The wine can be complimentary that night,” I continued before anyone could interrupt. “One glass per

guest. House wine.”

“We always charge for alcohol,” Nick said immediately, frowning. “It’s part of the revenue.”

“From what you told me earlier,” I countered gently, “you’re barely selling any. Including a glass of house wine with dinner is a differentiator. It makes people feel special, taken care of. And who knows, maybe they’ll like it so much they’ll buy a bottle to take home afterward.”

I saw Nick consider that, his expression softening just a little.

“On top of that,” I went on, seizing the opening, “we need to work a bit on the atmosphere. Lighting. Rustic wooden signs. An arch made of grapevines with a few benches around it for photos. Maybe some tall bistro-style tables made from old wine barrels you probably have stored somewhere…”

The ideas started coming faster, my hands moving as I spoke, trying to make them see the vision forming in my head.

“The key is getting guests to take as many photos as possible,” I explained, remembering Zoey’s voice from earlier.

Build a place that’s perfect for photos, she’d said over the phone. But not something that looks obviously staged for Instagram. No flashy backdrops or cheesy quotes. What needs to stand out is the place itself. The nature. The sunset. The vineyards. What you have that’s unique and real.

Martina was nodding along, clearly liking the idea. Paula still looked skeptical, but at least she was listening. Nick was harder to read. His eyes were on me, but his expression gave nothing away.

“We’ll need a few materials,” I continued, pulling out my phone and opening my notes. “Solar LED lights, they’re not expensive. Wood for the signs, which you already have. Paint. Some fabric for picnic blankets if you don’t have enough. Maybe a few potted plants…”

“Gwen,” Nick interrupted, his voice calm but firm. “We need to bring money in, not spend it.”

I stopped, looking at him. I understood the resistance. I really did. He was drowning in debt, counting every cent, and the idea of spending anything probably sounded reckless.

But I came from a world where you didn’t make money without investing first. It was basic business logic.

“They’ll be doing free advertising,” I said, keeping my voice calm and steady. “And not just traditional word of mouth. They’ll be doing free advertising online. Every photo they post, every story, every positive review is publicity you don’t have to pay for. We can even run a giveaway. A free weekend at the inn for anyone who tags you on social media. That kind of thing boosts engagement exponentially.”

“I don’t know, Gwen,” Nick said, running a hand through his hair in that familiar gesture of frustration.” This whole internet thing, social media… I don’t really understand how it works. It feels very… I don’t know. Artificial?”

“It’ll work,” I said with a conviction I wasn’t entirely sure I felt.

But Zoey had sworn it would. She’d said it clearly: I can get a huge travel influencer couple out there this month. On trade, so it won’t cost anything. But first everything needs to be tested and properly structured. And you’ll need a lot of professional-looking photos to feed their socials and start building digital presence before the influencers arrive.

“And there’s more,” I continued aloud. “We’ll use all the photos guests take for free to update your online presence. And trust me, Valemont Estate desperately needs that. Your Instagram has seventeen followers, and four of them are sitting in this kitchen. Your website looks like it was built when the internet still ran on floppy disks. You’re practically invisible online, and whether you like it or not, that’s where people look for places to visit these days.”

Nick still looked unconvinced. I could see the doubt in his eyes, the worry, the fear of risking what little they had on something that might not work.

“Nick,” I said more softly, leaning forward slightly, “I need you to trust me. I know it sounds scary. I know it feels risky. But I promise you, this will work.”

It was Martina who spoke.

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“Well, I trust her,” she said firmly, setting her teacup down on the table with a soft clink. “No one walks into my kitchen and tells me whether what I’m doing will work or not. I trust my instincts, my experience, what I’ve learned over decades of cooking. In the same way, Gwen trusts hers. And if we hired her, if we asked for her help, it’s not to question every idea she brings to the table. She knows what she’s doing.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

I looked at Martina, a wave of gratitude crashing over me so hard it almost brought tears to my eyes. She was defending me. Trusting me. Believing in me.

And I was lying to her.

“Thank you, Martina,” I managed, my voice coming out a little rough.

Martina had said I knew what I was doing.

But did I really?

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