Hired a Gigolo Got a Billionaire (Zoey and Christian) novel Chapter 61

The Valentian sunset painted the sky in shades of orange and rose as our car wound its way up a cypress–lined road. After twelve hours on a plane with my in–laws and an exhausting day in Virelia, my body begged for rest, but my eyes refused to close for even a second–not with so much beauty around me.

“We’re almost there,” Christian said, pointing toward the bend ahead.

When the car finally rounded the last curve, my breath caught. Rising before us, bathed in the golden glow of the setting sun, stood a Castorian villa that looked like it belonged in a film. Built from honey–colored stone, with tall windows framed by green shutters, the house stretched majestically atop the hill. Perfect rows of vines spilled down the adjacent valley, forming a hypnotic pattern of green and earth.

“Kensington Villa,” Christian announced, pride threading his voice in a way I rarely heard when he spoke of the mansion in Verdania.

“It’s…” I searched for words, but none seemed worthy. “Magnificent.”

When the car stopped at the grand entrance, I was immediately wrapped in the scents of Castoria–rosemary, thyme, sun–warmed earth, and something indefinable that could only be described as Valentia.

A middle–aged man with sun–bronzed skin and a warm smile greeted us at the entrance, speaking Valentian in

a lively rhythm I couldn’t follow. Christian responded easily, slipping into the language with a fluidity that made him seem instantly more relaxed, more at home.

“Anthony is the caretaker of the estate,” he explained to me. “He says he prepared the villa especially for our arrival and hopes we have a wonderful stay.”

Anthony bowed slightly to me, his “Benvenuta, Mrs. Kensington” needing no translation.

Mrs. Kensington. It still felt strange, but here, somehow, it seemed less like a farce and more like a possibility— a glimpse into an alternate world where our marriage wasn’t just a contract with an expiration date.

The inside of the villa was even more breathtaking than its facade. Terracotta floors gleamed underfoot, high ceilings revealed exposed wooden beams, and stone walls were adorned with ancient tapestries and works of art that looked far too valuable to be hanging casually in a countryside home.

“This estate has been in the family since before they moved to Verdania,” Christian said as he guided me down an arched corridor. “My great–great–grandfather bought it at the end of the nineteenth century, when no one believed these lands could produce quality grapes.”

“He proved them wrong, I imagine?” I asked, running my fingers across an old dark–wood table.

“Spectacularly wrong.” Christian smiled, and his expression here was lighter, freer, as if some of the weight he always carried had lifted. “The wines from this region became some of the most prestigious in Valentia.”

Anthony led us up a stone staircase to the upper floor, where enormous windows framed breathtaking views of the Castorian hills. He opened a heavy wooden door, revealing a bedroom that stole my breath all over again.

The master suite was vast, decorated in shades of blue and gold reminiscent of the Castorian sky. An antique canopy bed dominated the center, its linen curtains swaying softly in the breeze that drifted through the open windows. The view was otherworldly–rolling vineyards, dotted with olive groves and cypress trees, stretching all the way to the horizon where the sun had almost disappeared.

“This was my grandparents‘ room,” Christian said, watching as I took in every detail. “They spent every summer here. It’s where they first met, actually.”

“It’s beautiful,” I murmured, moving closer to one of the windows. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a place this perfect.”

When Anthony left, Christian stepped closer, joining me by the window.

“The estate stretches across nearly the entire valley you can see from here,” he explained. “The vineyards to the right are the oldest, planted by my great–grandfather. The ones to the left are more recent–an experiment with Franconian varieties.”

“And beyond those hills?” I asked, pointing toward the distant horizon.

“Other estates, other wineries. The region is famous for its wines.” He shrugged casually. “Some families have been here as long as the Kensingtons. The Montgomerys, for example, have a property on the other side of the valley.”

I noticed the faintest tightening of his shoulders at the mention of that name, but before I could dwell on it, a soft knock at the door interrupted.

An elderly woman with gray hair pulled back in a simple bun entered, carrying fresh towels. Her face lit up at the sight of Christian, and she immediately set the towels aside to embrace him, speaking in Valentian with obvious

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