Hired a Gigolo Got a Billionaire (Zoey and Christian) novel Chapter 696

Chapter 696

Nick’s POV

I drove without rushing. No bravado. No automatic confidence of someone who knows the city with his eyes closed.

Because after all these months, I could say I knew Florentia. I knew the streets, the shortcuts, the fastest way around traffic.

But that day, I knew something else.

Gwen’s fear. Fresh out of hiding. Still warm.

She sat quietly in the passenger seat, both hands resting in her lap, fingers laced together like holding onto herself was the most discreet way to stay whole. She had cried during the exam. So had I. The sound of the heartbeat had filled the room, and for a few minutes I’d believed it was enough to silence

the past.

It wasn’t.

I could see it in the tension in her jaw. In the way she stared out the window without actually seeing anything. Part of her was still on that road from years ago, and I wanted to rip that road off the map.

“Nick,” she said finally. The way she said my name told me she was about to try to take control of the universe. “Drop me at Kensington. I have a few urgent things to handle that-”

“No,” I cut in, without raising my voice.

She turned toward me, surprised. Gwen isn’t used to hearing no like that. Direct. Without a paragraph

underneath.

“Nick, I-”

“Today is ours,” I said, keeping my eyes on the road. If I looked at her, I might soften, and I couldn’t afford to soften. “You’ve handled enough urgent things in your life. Today you’re going to breathe.”

“I have a meeting, I have-”

“You have a heart beating that we heard today, and you have me,” I finished. “Everything else can wait.”

She opened her mouth to argue.

I already knew the argument. Responsibility. Reputation. Deadlines. I knew how she built walls out of

schedules.

I signaled right.

“Where are you going?” she asked, suspicious.

“Supermarket.”

1/4

onus

“Nick.”

“Gwen.”

I parked calmly, turned off the engine, and looked at her for real.

“Do you trust me?” I asked.

She held my gaze for a long second.

“I… do.”

“Then come on.”

At the supermarket, I grabbed a cart and she walked beside me with the expression of someone in foreign territory. I’d seen Gwen lead meetings with people who bought and sold companies like they were trading shoes. I’d seen her face reporters, lawyers, hospitals.

But in front of a shelf of vegetables, she looked like an executive without a map.

I smiled.

“What?” she asked, already defensive.

“Nothing.” I pushed the cart forward. “Just thinking I’m going to teach you the difference between basil and mint.”

“I know the difference.”

“Sure,” I said, grabbing a bunch of fresh basil and tossing it into the cart. “And I’m the Pope.”

She tried not to laugh.

Didn’t fully succeed.

I picked things without overthinking. Ripe tomatoes. Garlic. Lemons. A good piece of fish. Fresh pasta. Real olive oil. Strawberries. Bread, because bread turns a place into a home.

On the drive back, she relaxed a little. Still tense. But breathing more evenly. I drove slowly, like the whole

city needed to ask my permission.

When we got home, the first thing I saw was the note on the kitchen counter.

—

‘Went to visit a friend. Back tonight. Martina’

“So,” I said, gesturing broadly. “It’s just us.”

I carried the bags in and started putting things away. Gwen stood there watching, like she was trying to figure out the rules of this game.

I walked up to her and lightly touched her waist when I noticed her hand resting over her stomach.

2/4

“Did you feel something?” I asked.

She frowned.

“Feel what?”

“The baby,” I said quietly, like it might get shy.

She exhaled.

“No. Not yet. Sometimes I think it’s just… my intestines.”

I laughed.

“Great. Our child is going to be mistaken for gas. A humble beginning.”

She actually laughed.

And in that sound, I saw an opening.

“You’re going to sit,” I said, pointing at the table and gently taking the knife out of her hand. “I’m making

lunch.”

“Nick, I can help.”

“You can help without a knife.”

She crossed her arms.

“I’m not incompetent.”

“Gwen, you once tried to cut an avocado while completely ignoring the pit.”

“I was in a hurry.”

“You were furious,” I corrected.

She opened her mouth to argue and I raised my hand, laying down the law.

“Not today,” I said. “Today you’re supervising. You can… wash strawberries.”

“That’s humiliating.”

“That’s safe.”

I started cooking. The kitchen is my version of action without speeches. I chopped garlic, sautéed, seasoned. The sound of the pan, the smell of olive oil heating, tomatoes breaking down-it built a rhythm that didn’t require thought.

Gwen washed strawberries with absurd intensity.

“You’re washing them like they personally offended you,” I said.

3/4

“Then I don’t think I want to know.”

When it was ready, I plated everything. Simple pasta. Fish. Salad. The kind of meal that feels light but holds you together.

Gwen ate slowly, like she was relearning that pleasure didn’t have to equal productivity. I watched her chew and thought how strange it was that lunch could feel like resistance.

“Good?” I asked.

She nodded.

“It’s wonderful.” Then, after a second, “Thank you.”

I smiled and nudged her knee under the table.

That’s when the doorbell rang.

Too loud for the calm we’d built.

Gwen froze with her fork midair.

I stood before she could move.

“I’ll get it.”

She followed me with her eyes as I crossed the hallway.

The second I opened the door, Renee pushed in like a storm. No invitation. No pause. Eyes blazing with fury and something close to desperation.

“Where is she, Nick?” she shouted, her voice slicing through the house. “Give me back my daughter!”

D

Comments

Support

Share

4/4