Hired a Gigolo Got a Billionaire (Zoey and Christian) novel Chapter 705

Chapter 705

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Chapter 705

Gwen’s POV

The coffee still tasted bitter going down when I opened the first tag.

The page loaded with one of those layouts that pretended to be journalism but ran on the same fuel as gossip. Certainty without proof. Assumptions dressed up as facts.

I skimmed fast, scanning the damage.

[COO of Kensington Valentia Involved in Child Kidnapping]

I scrolled.

[Sources close to the biological mother…]

[Experts say cases like this often involve parental alienation…]

[Gwen allegedly manipulated the child into rejecting her mother…]

Manipulated? I read it again to make sure that was really the word.

The narrative was neat. Gwen, billionaire, calculating, pregnant, jealous of the ex-wife.

I scrolled further.

[Suspiciously, amid the disappearance, the executive was the only one who ‘intuitively’ knew where to look…]

[After the public commotion, she positioned herself as the savior…]

And then the line meant to slice clean through:

[It is difficult to believe that, with the entire town searching for Isabella, only Gwen knew where to find her.]

My hand tightened around the mug. It trembled with anger.

I had lived through leaks. I had been a headline over ridiculous things. I knew the game. But this wasn’t just about me. It dragged

a child into it.

I scrolled down, looking for anything that pointed to who had fed this story. What I found instead, in quotation marks, was an emotional statement from the “desperate mother.”

The article described tears. A trembling voice. A hand pressed to her chest. As if a text could film.

“All I want is my daughter back.”

“Isabella chose to stay with me, and now her father and his wife are taking that away.”

And then the final line, crafted to sound fragile while cutting deep: “She has money. She has a powerful last name. It she decides

to disappear with my daughter somewhere in the world… what can I possibly do?”

I hurled my phone across the counter. It hit the wood and slid, stopping near the fruit bowl.

“Bitch!” I shouted.

And that was exactly when Nick walked into the kitchen.

He was in a T-shirt, hair messy, his face still marked by a night that hadn’t allowed real sleep. He looked at me, then at the phone too far from where it should be, then at my nearly tipped coffee mug.

“Please,” he said, his voice tired but instantly alert. “Don’t tell me Renee found a way to cause more damage.”

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I pointed at the phone like it was contaminated.

“That’s exactly the cow I’m talking about.”

Nick exhaled and stepped closer to the counter.

“What did she do?”

I moved to grab the phone, ready to show him the article line by line. Halfway there, the screen lit up with a notification.

It was a message from Cross. [ON MY WAY. DO NOT DO ANYTHING BEFORE I GET THERE.]

The capital letters felt like a brake being slammed.

I lifted the phone and showed Nick the message first. He read it. His jaw tightened.

“And this?” he asked.

I opened the article.

Nick scanned it, and I watched the anger rise in him. Quiet, but unmistakable.

“We can sue her,” he said under his breath. “This is lie after lie. She can’t prove any of it.”

I closed my eyes for a second.

“I know,” I said. “But damage doesn’t need proof to happen.”

He was about to respond when the doorbell rang.

“Stay here,” Nick said.

I followed him anyway.

In the hallway, Martina was already stepping out of her bedroom. Her hair was pulled back in a rush, and she had that look of someone who had slept with one eye open.

“What is it?” she asked quietly.

The doorbell rang again.

Nick opened the door.

Two men stood outside. One with the stance of a police officer, simple uniform. The other in plain clothes, holding a folder with an ID badge hanging from his neck. Beside them, a woman with a large bag and the same badge.

Social services.

“Mr. Valemont?” the man with the folder asked.

“That’s me,” Nick replied.

“There has been a formal report and a welfare check has been requested,” he said in a clean, professional tone. “We need to speak with the minor. Isabella.”

Nick went still for a second.

“She’s just waking up,” he said, and I recognized the deliberate choice of words buying time. “It was a difficult night.”

The social worker looked at Nick, then at me, then at Martina. Her expression was neutral, but trained to detect cracks.

“We understand,” she said. “We can wait a few minutes.”

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The officer beside her said nothing. He just watched.

Nick took a breath.

“Come in,” he said finally.

The man with the folder pulled out a document and presented it carefully.

“We are here to comply with the current directive and formally document the circumstances of the disappearance. We need to hear from Isabella and assess the situation now.”

Nick didn’t raise his voice, but his posture hardened.

“Before any conversation,” he said, “what is the procedure? Is this being recorded as a spontaneous statement or a formal interview?”

The social worker kept her tone steady, trained not to escalate.

“An initial welfare check. Brief. Not an interrogation. We need to document the child’s account and the conditions under which she was found.”

“She spent the night frightened,” Nick said, setting clear boundaries. “I will not allow invasive questioning, leading questions, or any conversation without a clear record of what is said and in what context.”

The man with the folder didn’t blink.

“Exactly why we need to do this properly. No noise. No room for interpretation,” he replied.

Nick tilted his head slightly.

“Great. Then you can wait for our attorney,” he said, his voice turning colder. “I cooperate. But I cooperate with legal protection.

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Before the tension snapped, I added,

“Cross is on his way. As soon as he arrives, you may speak with Bella under a defined protocol, and briefly.”

The social worker nodded as if this were part of a script she saw every day.

“We can wait.”

Nick’s jaw tightened. Martina touched his arm for a second, a silent reminder to breathe.

Cross arrived faster than I thought possible, in a blazer with his briefcase in hand, serious expression, eyes scanning the room like a scanner.

He greeted everyone formally.

“I represent the family,” he said, then pulled Nick and me aside for a few seconds. “Say nothing beyond what’s necessary,” he murmured. “Do not respond to insinuations. And above all, stay off the internet.”

Nick let out a humorless huff.

“Too late.”

Cross inhaled slowly, then turned to the social worker, shifting seamlessly into professional mode.

“All right. Let’s proceed.”

Nick didn’t argue. He just went pale as he walked to Bella’s room to get her.

“They just want to talk for a minute, princess,” he told her gently. “I’m here. Gwen is here. Grandma is here. Okay?”

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Bella looked at me, then at Martina, then at the badges. She nodded slowly, like she was trying to be “good.”

The social worker approached at the right pace, not intrusive.

“Hi, Isabella. I’m Clara. I just want to understand what happened yesterday. Can we talk in the kitchen for a minute?”

Bella hesitated. Her hand found her father’s for a second, squeezed, then let go.

“Okay…” she whispered.

Cross opened the kitchen door and remained just outside the threshold, not entering. The man with the folder and the police officer stayed in the living room with us. Martina sat stiffly on the sofa, hands clasped. I stayed standing because my body refused to accept the idea of sitting.

That was when the apartment stopped feeling like ours.

We couldn’t hear clear words. Just low voices. Long pauses. A chair scraping the floor. I watched Nick try to hold a neutral expression and fail.

Cross made a nearly invisible gesture with his hand. Calm.

A few minutes later, Bella came out first.

She didn’t look at anyone except her father. She ran to him and wrapped herself around his legs with a silent desperation that made my stomach twist.

Nick ran his hand slowly over her hair, like he was counting to ten with his fingers.

“I’m here. I’m right here.”

The social worker stepped out behind her, adjusting her bag on her shoulder. The man with the folder stood. The officer shifted

the radio at his waist.

Then, choosing the least cruel wording she could find, she said,

“Mr. Valemont… Under the current court order, primary residence remains, for now, with the mother. Therefore, today, Isabella must be returned to her.”

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