Hired a Gigolo Got a Billionaire (Zoey and Christian) novel Chapter 678

Chapter 678

Gwen’s POV

I walked out of the restroom as if nothing had happened.

The door closed behind me with a soft, almost polite click, and I made my way down the narrow hallway without looking back, even with the metallic taste of blood lingering at the corner of my mouth.

I brushed the back of my hand across it, disguising the motion as if I were fixing a strand of hair.

Red.

Just a thin streak, but enough to remind me I had crossed a line I had spent my entire life avoiding.

I didn’t like physical fights.

Not because I was weak. Far from it. But because ninety-nine percent of the time, things can be handled with words.

Renee was my one percent.

She had a sick talent for turning air into a blade. For finding, with surgical precision, the exact pressure point that makes a smart woman lose her intelligence for two seconds.

And if someone dragged me into a fight…

I wasn’t going to lose.

That’s a skill you develop when you grow up being shoved into lockers by people who think it’s funny that you’re “the mistress’s daughter.” When you learn too early that crying in public becomes someone else’s entertainment. When you realize the world. has no patience for girls who lower their heads.

I’m not proud of it.

Okay. Maybe a little.

Because Christian taught me something I never forgot: if you don’t know how to defend yourself, people will always corner you. And if you let it happen once, you become the person they try again.

So I learned.

To defend myself with words.

With money, when necessary,

And with my fists, when nothing else would do.

Renee, on the bathroom floor, had just learned that the direct way

I kept walking

Around me, people laughed, talked, crossed paths with glasses of champagne and clouds of perfume as it hasn’t just fought a war in a tiled room. I kept my chin level, shoulders back, steps steady looked like I still belonged there

That’s how you survive.

You don’t show up wounded.

I was only a few feet from the side exit, the one that led more directly to the elevator and parking garage, when one of the organizers intercepted me with an anxious smile.

Lara. I remembered her name because she had told me four times, each with a slightly different shade of nerves.

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“Gwen,” she said, slightly out of breath, holding her phone and a folder against her chest. “I’m so sorry to stop you. I know you were heading out, but the talk was perfect. We just need two more photos for local press and one for our institutional materials”

I stopped.

Her smile faltered the moment she really looked at me.

Her eyes dropped to my mouth. Then to the side of my face. Then to the faint red mark along my neck.

“Oh my God… Gwen. What happened?”

For a split second, I wanted to tell her. I wanted to say Renee’s name out loud and let it land like a blade on a table.

But I smiled.

“Nothing a little makeup can’t fix,” I replied lightly.

She let out a nervous laugh and nodded.

“Of course. Of course. Come with me. We’ve got a space in the back. The makeup artist is still here.”

I followed her.

The makeshift makeup room was small, with a table crowded by brushes, setting sprays, highlighters, and a ring light that made everyone look slightly more exposed than they might prefer.

The makeup artist, a woman with quick hands and observant eyes, lifted her brows when she saw me.

“Hi…” she said gently, the way someone does when they understand without asking. “Have a seat.”

I sat.

Lara stayed beside me, talking to fill the silence.

“It was incredible, Gwen. Really. The part where you talked about reinvention after crisis… I swear half the audience was taking notes. And the way you answered without… without giving anything personal away. It was so elegant.”

I let the conversation float around me without fully stepping into it. A nod here. A polite smile there. The strange sensation of discussing “reinvention” with a split lip.

The makeup artist dabbed a cotton swab carefully along the side of my mouth.

It stung

I didn’t flinch.

She covered the scratches with concealer, one thin layer, then another. Powder. Foundation. A touch of blush to return the color enger had drained from my face.

“Are you okay?” she asked quietly, not meeting my eyes.

“I’m fine.”

I was… functional.

In my world, that had always counted as fine.

I was halfway through some polite sentence about how flawless the organization had been and how important initiatives like this were when the door opened.

There was nothing subtle about it.

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A man in uniform stepped inside, posture rigid, expression trained into neutrality. He paused at the threshold, scanned the room quickly, and then asked in the tone of someone who already knew the answer,

“Ms. Gwen Kensington?”

The makeup artist froze mid-stroke.

Lara went pale in a way that would have been almost funny under different circumstances.

I took one breath.

Then I turned toward him with the same composure I used when quarterly numbers were down but investors couldn’t be allowed to smell smoke.

“Yes,” I said. “That’s me.”

The officer stepped farther in, keeping a respectful distance.

“Ma’am, I’m Officer Johnson with the State Police. I’ll need you to come with me to the station to provide a statement.”

The words were delivered cleanly. No theatrics.

The impact felt like ice.

“A statement about what?” Lara blurted before I could speak.

The officer glanced at her briefly, then returned his focus to me.

“There has been a report of physical assault on the premises of this event,” he said carefully. “Your name was identified as one of the parties involved.”

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Chapter 870

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