Hired a Gigolo Got a Billionaire (Zoey and Christian) novel Chapter 593

Chapter 593

Gwen’s POV

Mia and Dante left my office about twenty minutes later, carrying the empty Thai takeout containers and leaving behind the heavy silence that always followed difficult conversations.

I stayed at my desk for a long moment, staring at my phone.

I knew what I had to do. I had put it off long enough.

I took a deep breath and dialed.

Christian answered on the second ring.

“What’s wrong?” was the first thing he said, his voice already filled with that immediate concern he always had whenever I called during work hours.

I couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out.

“Oh my God, Christian,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “You need to relax. Every time I call Zoey, she’s by a pool or at a spa. You should join her sometime. Get a massage. Drink some wine. I don’t know. Live a little.”

There was a pause on the other end. Then he replied, and I could hear the smile in his voice.

“As much as I appreciate the unsolicited relationship advice,” he said in that dry tone he used when he was being sarcastic, “Zoey and I are doing very well, thank you. In fact, we’re planning a trip to Valentia

soon.”

He paused, pointedly.

“Maybe you have a little countryside inn in Castoria you’d recommend.”

My stomach dropped.

1 grimaced even though he couldn’t see me.

“She told you,” I said. It wasn’t a question. “Didn’t she?”

“She’s my wife, Gwen,” Christian replied simply. “And you missed the deadline she gave you. You know

how I feel about missed deadlines.”

Of course I did.

Christian hated it when people were late with deliverables, missed deadlines, failed to follow through on what they promised. He said it showed a lack of professionalism. A lack of responsibility. A lack of respect for other people’s time and work.

“Don’t be mad at her,” he continued, his voice softening slightly. “She defended you very well.”

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I smiled despite everything.

“Of course I’m not mad at her,” I said. “Zoey is right. She always is. I just… didn’t know how to tell you. How to explain it.”

There was silence on the other end for a moment.

“Are you mad at me?” I asked finally, my voice coming out smaller than I intended.

Christian laughed. It was a dry, almost emotionless one he used when he was working through something complicated.

“Of course I’m not mad,” he said. “Let’s see. Did you cost me a potentially profitable deal? Yes, you did.”

He paused.

“Did

you become a partner in another winery, creating a potential conflict of interest? Yes, you did.”

Another pause.

“Yes,” he went on. “You lied to me by omission for weeks. Yes, you did.”

I let out a nervous laugh.

“When you put it like that…”

“But,” Christian cut in, his voice turning serious now, “as long as your name doesn’t end up in the press as a partner in another winery, and as long as this doesn’t become a legal or PR problem for Kensington, we’re fine. You have the right to your own investments. To your own financial decisions.”

Something loosened in my chest. Relief. Gratitude.

“Thank you,” I said softly. “For understanding. For not…”

“Gwen,” he said, and there was genuine warmth in his voice now, “you’re my sister. And one of the best professionals I know. I trust your judgment. Even when I don’t completely understand your choices.”

I sighed and looked down at the papers spread across my desk. Reports. Spreadsheets. Numbers that normally made perfect sense, but now felt secondary compared to the problems I was trying to solve.

“And now,” I said finally, “since you know everything… how do I fix this?”

“Fix what?” Christian asked.

“How do I save Valemont Estate?”

“I thought you and Zoey were already working on that,” he replied, clear confusion in his voice.

“And we are,” I said quickly. “And her ideas are great. They really are. But they’re long-term. Building reputation. Attracting steady clients. Increasing revenue gradually.”

I paused and rubbed my forehead, where a headache was starting to form.

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“But we don’t have the luxury of time, Christian. We have a few weeks. And a debt that has to be paid, or they lose everything.”

“Is the debt really that big?” he asked. I could hear keyboard clicks. He was probably opening a spreadsheet, running numbers in his head.

“No,” I admitted. “It’s ridiculous, actually. Forty-two thousand dollars. It’s nothing. I spend more than that on…”

I stopped, realizing what I was about to say.

“On a shopping spree?” Christian finished dryly. “Yes, I know.”

“Something like that…”

“Then why don’t you pay it?” he asked, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re a partner now. You have a share of the profits. It makes sense to invest in the business.”

“Nick would never accept it,” I said immediately. “He… he’s proud. I already offered help and he practically threw me out. Said he didn’t want charity. That I was just a friend and had nothing to do with his problems.”

“Gwen,” Christian said, and his voice took on the tone he used in board meetings. “You are not offering charity. You’re a partner. You have ten percent of the profits for the next year, correct?”

“Correct,” I confirmed.

“Then, as a partner, you don’t want to see the business fail. If you have the power to prevent bankruptcy and choose to sit back and watch your own money go up in flames, that’s not respect for his feelings. That’s terrible business judgment. It’s financial incompetence.”

I listened in silence, processing.

He was right.

This wasn’t about giving Nick money. It was about protecting my investment. About being a responsible partner. About making smart business decisions regardless of personal feelings.

“You don’t have to tell him it was you who paid,” Christian added, his voice turning practical. “Pay the bank directly. Clear the debt. Done. And the bank won’t reveal your name, even if he asks. Confidentiality.”

“Yeah,” I murmured, gears turning in my head. “That might actually work.”

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