Hired a Gigolo Got a Billionaire (Zoey and Christian) novel Chapter 625

Chapter 625

Gwen’s POV

I was just as uncomfortable as Nick, maybe even more.

But I kept pretending everything was normal, because I knew he was pretending too.

It wasn’t.

Conversation over the improvised snack felt forced. I asked generic questions about the drive. He answered politely, but there was distance in his voice. We both carefully avoided the enormous elephant in the room. Or rather, the enormous penthouse around us.

After we finished eating in awkward silence, I cleaned up the kitchen quickly and turned to him with what I hoped was a natural smile.

“Come on,” I said. “I want to show you some places I love in Florentia. Not just the tourist spots. My real Florentia.”

Nick nodded, looking relieved to have something to do besides standing in my apartment trying not to stare at everything that whispered money.

We went down to the garage in heavy silence.

When the elevator doors opened, I hesitated for just a second before asking, “Is it okay if we take my car? I’ll drive, since I know the city better. I want to take you to a few specific places.”

“Of course,” Nick agreed quickly. “That makes sense.”

I walked toward the spaces reserved for the apartment.

Three cars sat there.

The white Fiat 500 I always drove to the estate. It was perfect for not drawing attention.

The gray Audi A3 Sportback I used daily in Florentia. It was elegant enough for the city, but nothing flashy.

And the silver Mercedes convertible that mostly sat untouched, covered in a thin layer of dust from

disuse.

I followed through on my so-called reality-shock plan, which was now starting to feel like one of the worst ideas I’d ever had, and walked straight past the first two.

To the Mercedes.

ed it. The sharp beep echoed through the silent garage.

Nick didn’t say a word.

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He simply got into the passenger seat, buckled his seatbelt with mechanical movements, and stared straight ahead.

I started the engine. The smooth purr filled the silence.

We pulled out of the garage, the doorman opening the gate automatically with a polite nod.

“First,” I said, forcing brightness into my voice, “I’m taking you somewhere I love. It’s not touristy. It’s where I go when I need to slow down.”

Nick nodded, still looking out the window.

I drove through Florentia’s narrow streets, weaving around distracted tourists with the ease of someone who did this every day.

The first stop was a small bookstore tucked into an alley most people walked past without noticing. It specialized in first editions and rare books. The owner, Mrs. Catherine, greeted me warmly the second we stepped inside.

“Gwen! What a wonderful surprise!” she exclaimed, hugging me like family.

I introduced Nick. Catherine proudly showed us a few recent arrivals, old editions about Castorian agriculture and traditional recipes. Nick flipped through them with genuine interest, his shoulders loosening slightly.

I bought two books she recommended. Nick went quiet when he noticed the price penciled discreetly

inside the cover.

After that, I took him to the park where I ran in the mornings. Then to the small art gallery where I’d bought the abstract painting in my living room. Then to the hidden café where I drank cappuccino when I

needed to think.

We had good moments. Romantic ones, even.

Nick held my hand as we walked. Pulled me in for a quick kiss on a bridge over the river. Smiled genuinely when I showed him my favorite angle of the Duomo at sunset.

But the tension never left.

It sat between us. Heavy. Suffocating.

When night began to fall, I decided to push it further.

“I know an incredible restaurant,” I said. “One of my favorites in Florentia. Want to have dinner there?”

wit might be too much for the first day. But part of me needed to believe he could stand beside me

orld without feeling small.

“Sure,” Nick said.

I drove us there.

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It wasn’t loud luxury. It was understated elegance. Historic façade. Soft lighting. A small, refined sign by the door.

The moment we stepped inside, Nick stopped.

He looked around. The interior was stunning. White linen tablecloths. Candlelight. Original art on the walls. Impeccably dressed waiters.

And a clientele that was unmistakably wealthy. Tailored suits. Subtle but authentic jewelry. Low, polished conversations.

The maître d’ recognized me immediately.

“Ms. Gwen!” he greeted warmly. “What a pleasure to see you again. Your usual table is available.”

I felt Nick stiffen beside me.

Your usual table.

That made it clear I came here often enough to have a preferred table.

“Thank you, Paul,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

We followed him through the restaurant. Nick walked beside me, but I could feel the tension radiating off

him.

As soon as we sat down, he finally spoke. His voice was low. Tight.

“You should’ve warned me.”

“Warned you about what?” I asked, even though I knew exactly what he meant.

“So I could’ve brought something more…. appropriate to wear,” he said, glancing down at his simple shirt, regular jeans, practical shoes.

Around us, men wore tailored shirts, pressed trousers, expensive leather shoes.

“Nonsense,” I said firmly. “You look handsome.”

Nick didn’t answer. He just looked around again, probably comparing himself to every other man in the

room.

I tried to make conversation. I mentioned the bookstore from earlier. Asked if he’d liked the view from the bridge. Suggested we visit the St. Lawrence market the next day if he wanted.

He answered in monosyllables.

rt reply like a door quietly shutting.

“Should we order?” I suggested at last, unable to bear the heavy silence any longer.

I picked up the tablet embedded in the table. The digital menu lit up, sleek and modern.

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Nick copied me, picking up his tablet stiffly, as if he hadn’t expected the menu to work that way.

I watched his eyes move down the screen.

Then he muttered, so low I almost didn’t hear it:

“There aren’t any prices.”

Only then did it hit me. There wasn’t a single number on the screen. I was so used to it I didn’t even notice anymore. But this was clearly one of those places where, if you had to ask the price, you probably shouldn’t be there.

“Oh,” I said quickly, maybe too quickly. “Don’t worry about that. I invited you.”

Nick didn’t take more than ten seconds.

He set the tablet back down. Stood up. Murmured something that sounded like “I can’t do this” as he was already turning toward the exit.

“Nick!” I called, pushing my chair back.

But he was already striding across the restaurant with fast, determined steps.

Ignoring the curious looks from other diners.

Ignoring the confused maître asking if everything was alright.

Ignoring me.

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