Hired a Gigolo Got a Billionaire (Zoey and Christian) novel Chapter 632

Chapter 632

Nicholas’ POV

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Christian’s office was big, but not enormous. Longer than it was wide, with an entire glass wall overlooking Florentia and, at the center, a desk that felt less like a throne and more like a battlefield. An open laptop, a few stacked folders, a half-empty bottle of water. Nothing out of place.

He was standing beside the desk, finishing a conversation with two people in suits. He didn’t raise his voice, just wrapped it up bluntly.

“Send me the revised projection by the end of the day. No spin.”

They both nodded quickly, gathered their papers, and left. An assistant walked in, dropped off another folder, then left again. The door closed. It was just the three of us now: Christian, Dante, and me.

Christian finally turned fully toward us.

His eyes landed on me for a second, assessing, then shifted to Dante.

“Interesting problem, huh?” he repeated what his cousin had said at the door.

Dante gave a half-smile.

“I promise it’s better than most of the ones you get by email.”

Christian took a deep breath, like he was accepting that his morning had just taken a different turn.

“Alright,” he said. “You can drop the bomb and go, Dante.”

“With pleasure,” Dante replied. He gave my shoulder a light pat. “Good luck, almost cousin.”

Then he walked out, closing the door behind him.

The silence that followed wasn’t hostile. It was just… focused.

Christian looked back at me. He didn’t seem angry. Just busy. And curious.

“If you’re here,” he began, walking around the side of the desk, “I’m assuming Gwen told you who she is.”

I nodded.

“She did.”

A quick expression-relief, maybe-crossed his face.

“Good,” he said, pulling out one of the meeting chairs and pointing to another. “Then I can skip the part where I pretend to be surprised. Sit.”

I did.

He sat too, leaning forward slightly with his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together.

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“And you’re here to tell me you’re breaking up with my sister,” he stated with the same calm someone might use to ask about the weather.

I blinked

“Maybe I should,” I replied after a moment. “But that’s not why I’m here.”

“No?” he raised an eyebrow.

“No. Because I love her.”

He watched me for a few seconds. Not like he was sizing me up, but like he was weighing the words.

“Alright,” he said finally. “So what do you want?”

I swallowed. I’d repeated the answer in my head since the café, but now it felt too big.

“Help me get the estate to a level where I don’t feel like a burden in your sister’s life,” I said in one breath. “Not with charity. With work.”

Something in his expression shifted slightly. His eyes flicked to the window for a second, then back to

“Okay,” he said. “And what exactly do you mean by “level”?”

I took a deep breath.

“You know we have quality,” I started. “You’ve tasted our wine. Seen the land. I might not be a numbers guy, but I know how to do what I do. I care about what I do.”

I ran a hand over the back of my neck, searching for the next words.

“I thought that… maybe… you could help us get into the places Kensington wines get into. Not to replace anything. Just to share a little space. A wine list here, a restaurant there. The same doors that open for you opening just a little for us too.”

Christian leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers together.

“Alright,” he repeated, and this time it was clearly the start of an analysis. “Let’s take this step by step.”

He picked up a pen and a notepad, not because he needed them, but because it made it feel like he was about to open a map.

“First point: positioning,” he began “Kensington is premium. Not because we decided to be snobs, but because our entire structure was built on that.

He looked at me.

‘Do you know how much wine we sell every year?”

I shook my head.

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“A lot. I assume.”

He gave a faint smile.

“Quite a lot. In a lot of places. Which means any restaurant, hotel, or store that carries Kensington on its list or shelves expects three things.”

He held up three fingers as he counted them off.

“One: consistency. Same style, same profile, year after year. Two: volume. We can’t disappear from one vintage to the next. Three: reputation. If something goes wrong, we’re the ones who take the hit.”

He lowered his hand.

“You with me so far?”

“Yes.”

“How many bottles do you produce a year, Nick?”

“It depends on the harvest. Between eight and ten thousand.”

He nodded.

“That’s a solid number for a small producer,” he acknowledged. “But it’s a drop in the ocean for our distribution network. If I put Valemont in half a dozen restaurants that already work with us, you’d sell out in five minutes. And the following year, if there’s frost, hail, or any unexpected issue, you disappear. That’s not good for you, and it’s not good for me.”

I crossed my arms, trying not to sink into the chair.

“We could increase production,” I argued. “With the right investment…”

“You could,” he agreed. “But that brings us to the second problem: structure.”

He tilted his head slightly.

“How many full-time employees do you have?”

I answered. He followed with more quick questions. About equipment, cellar capacity, bottling lines, delivery logistics.

Each answer seemed to build an invisible chart in his head.

“This isn’t a criticism,” he said when he noticed my expression tightening. “On the contrary. For your size, you’re performing miracles.”

He paused.

“But miracles don’t scale. And a premium brand needs a minimum level of scale. You can’t step onto the same shelf as us the way things stand today.”

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I went quiet. His words started to blur together in my head, turning into one heavy message: not enough.

Christian studied me for a moment.

“You understand what I’m saying?” he asked finally.

My throat tightened.

“I understand,” I said. “I understand that, in practice, you’re telling me I’m a failure and I’ll never be good enough for your sister.”

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