Hired a Gigolo Got a Billionaire (Zoey and Christian) novel Chapter 600

Chapter 600

Gwen’s POV

“Probably…”

I needed to do something. ‘Think fast, Gwen. Think fast before it’s too late.’

“…from some…”

My eyes scanned the counter in desperation. There was a knife right beside me. A large, red tomato on the cutting board. I could pretend I was helping. Pretend I was going to cut it.

“…party…”

I

Oh God. This was going to hurt. It was going to hurt a lot. But I had no other choice.

“…from Kensin-”

I let the knife slip.

On purpose.

Hard enough to really cut.

The pain was instant. And very real.

A scream tore out of me. One I didn’t have to fake.

Blood spilled from my left hand, running between my fingers as I instinctively pressed it to my chest.

“Oh my God, are you okay?” Lavinia abandoned her sentence completely and rushed toward me.

Everyone turned at once. Martina dropped the spoon she was holding. Dario froze with the dough in his hands. Nick was at my side in two long strides.

“Gwen,” he said urgently. “Let me see.”

“I cut myself,” I said unnecessarily, my voice trembling. I wasn’t pretending. The pain was sharp and pulsing. “I cut my hand.”

Nick gently took my hand, carefully moving my fingers aside to assess the damage. Blood was still flowing, bright red against my pale skin.

“Come here,” he said, guiding me toward the sink. “We need to rinse this.”

He turned on the faucet, adjusted the temperature, and placed my hand under the stream. The cold water made the pain spike for a moment before easing slightly.

“It doesn’t look too deep,” he said, holding my wrist steady as he examined it. “But it’s bleeding a lot.”

He pulled a handkerchief from his shirt pocket. A clean square of fabric he had probably slipped in that

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morning without knowing it would be used like this. He carefully wrapped it around my hand.

“I’ll get the first-aid kit,” Martina said immediately, already heading for the cabinet.

“No need,” Nick replied. “I have one in my room. You keep teaching. Paula can help.”

“But-”

“I’ll take care of her,” he said firmly, already guiding me out of the kitchen.

We climbed the stairs in silence. My hand throbbed with every heartbeat, the handkerchief already staining red.

He led me straight into the bathroom connected to his room and had me sit on the edge of the bathtub while he grabbed a first-aid kit from under the sink.

“Let me see it again,” he said, kneeling in front of me and carefully unwrapping the blood-soaked cloth.

The cut wasn’t bleeding as heavily now, but a jagged red line still crossed the palm of my left hand.

He cleaned it with saline-soaked cotton, then applied antiseptic that burned enough to make me wince.

“Sorry,” he murmured, gently blowing on it as if that might help.

“It’s okay,” I said, watching him work.

He looked up and gave me a small smile.

“The blood makes it look worse than it is.”

“So does the pain,” I said honestly.

Nick chuckled softly and went back to bandaging my hand.

“Come on,” he said when he finished, helping me stand. “You should sit somewhere more comfortable for a few minutes.”

He guided me into his bedroom, and I sat on the edge of his bed. Nick stood in front of me for a moment, then sat down beside me. Close enough to feel his warmth. Far enough to be respectful.

“You know,” he said, and there was amusement in his voice now, “I still don’t understand how you managed to cut the palm of your hand while slicing a tomato.”

I looked at him and caught his teasing smile.

“I mean,” he went on, “a finger, sure. Everyone cuts a finger once in a while in the kitchen. But the palm of your hand? That takes a special talent for accidents.”

I couldn’t help laughing, even though my hand still hurt.

Maybe cutting a finger would have been more believable. But I hadn’t had time to think. Everything had happened so fast.

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“I don’t know either,” I said, shrugging. “I guess I really need some cooking lessons from Martina. Apparently, I’m not very good at this.”

“You don’t cook?” he asked, genuine curiosity in his voice.

I froze.

No. I didn’t. Not really. Not beyond the basics. And my “basics” mostly involved reheating food or defrosting things the chef had prepared.

But saying that would sound spoiled. Privileged.

“A little,” I said carefully. “But usually nothing from scratch. Pasta and sauce from packages, you know. Simple stuff.”

Nick made an exaggerated face of horror.

“That would be a mortal offense to Martina,” he joked. “Store-bought pasta? In an Valentian house? Blasphemy.”

I laughed, grateful he’d turned it into a joke instead of pressing further.

He finished adjusting the bandage, his fingers lingering on my skin a second longer than necessary. Then he shifted closer.

“Does it feel better?” he asked softly.

“I think so,” I said, looking at my wrapped hand.

“You should rest for a bit now,” he said. “At least until the pain fades. I can handle the influencers on my own. It shouldn’t be too hard. They seem excited about everything.”

Maybe that was for the best. If I stayed away from Lavinia, she probably wouldn’t bring up Kensington again. Not that I could avoid it forever. But if I could talk to her privately later, away from Nick and his family, I might be able to explain that I didn’t want the Kensington name connected to the business. That

it was better if no one knew.

“Okay,” I nodded. “But if you need anything, call me. Even like this, I can still take photos with my other hand or help somehow.”

“Actually,” Nick said, and there was something different in his tone now, “I do need you. I mean, not right now. Later.”

I looked at him, curious.

“I had an idea for the medieval tower,” he continued. “And I’d like your professional opinion.”

“Of course,” I said immediately. “W

you want.”

“Tonight,” he specified, giving me a mysterious smile. “After dinner. When the influencers are settled. Just the two of us.”

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Something tightened in my chest at that.

Just the two of us.

He stood and walked toward the door.

“Get some rest,” he said, glancing back at me. “And try not to cut anything else until then.”

I stayed sitting on his bed for a long moment.

Then I leaned back and stretched out, staring up at the white ceiling with its tiny cracks that had probably been there for decades.

I’d barely escaped by inches. But how many more times could I dodge the truth before it finally caught up with me?

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