Hired a Gigolo Got a Billionaire (Zoey and Christian) novel Chapter 733

Chapter 733 Extra 2

Zoey’s POV

Fifteen Days Earlier…

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I was in our bedroom at the estate in Highridge, doing exactly what, in my mind, qualified as peace: skincare before bed.

The bathroom glowed in warm yellow light, and the mirror was big enough to reflect not just my face, but the whole idea of comfort behind it. Towels folded just right. Bottles lined up neatly on a tray. A faint, clean scent of soap in the air, like someone had decided that “home” should have a smell.

My hair was piled into a messy, ugly bun when I dropped a few drops of oil into my palm.

I rubbed my fingers together slowly, feeling the light texture, then started massaging it into my skin. It was almost automatic, but I liked the ritual. Not because I believed any miracle printed on a label. I liked it because it was a practical way of telling my body: it’s over. The day’s done.

The door opened behind me, and I didn’t need to look to know it was him.

Christian had a very specific way of entering a room. Even when he tried to be quiet, his presence arrived first. Like the air adjusted itself for him.

I heard the soft click of the door closing and the sound of his steps across the carpet. When he got close, I felt the warmth of his body behind me. Then his lips brushed my neck.

“You’re irresistible all the time…” he murmured against my skin, and I could feel his smile there. “But with this grape scent?”

I laughed and turned my head just slightly, still watching my reflection.

“Want to see?” I asked, lifting the simple-labeled bottle.

He tilted his head, curious, like I’d just revealed some classified secret.

“Grape seed oil,” I announced, proud.

“That’s a thing?” he asked, genuinely surprised, which only made it better.

“It is, and it’s amazing,” I said. “Lightweight, doesn’t feel heavy, full of antioxidants. It makes your skin feel… comfortable. And I like it because it doesn’t feel like I’m smearing butter on my face.”

Christian made a low, approving sound and brushed his nose against the back of my neck again before letting out a short laugh.

“Impressive, Grapes really work hard.”

I finished spreading the oil and grabbed the mist bottle from the counter.

It was small, amber glass, with a label I had designed myself on my computer and printed in a minimalist font. Because I had standards. If I was going to be homemade, I was going to be aesthetically homemade.

Christian noticed and narrowed his eyes.

“And that?” he asked.

“Mist,” I said. “Grape water.”

He raised a brow.

“You’re making up words.”

“I’m creating a sensory experience,” I corrected.

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“Zoey…” he said, in that tone that was half warning, half admiration.

I smiled and, before he could decide whether to stop me, I spritzed it at him.

Psh.

The mist hit his chest and face, and Christian stepped back in exaggerated reflex.

“Hey!” he protested, laughing.

“You mentioned the grape scent,” I reminded him. “I’m just giving you the full experience.”

He ran a hand over his face, smelled his wrist, and paused like he was evaluating a glass of wine.

“Okay…” he concluded. “That’s actually good.”

I crossed my arms, satisfied.

“I know.”

He looked at me with that expression I knew well. The one that tried to figure out how I managed to be both practical and completely inventive at the same time.

“You made this yourself?” he asked.

“It’s homemade,” I said. “Doesn’t last long. I make small batches and use it fast.”

“You’re dangerous,” he said.

“I’m a woman with free time and access to grapes,” I shot back.

He laughed, then stepped closer, his hand settling on my hip like it belonged there.

“You’re really creative,” he said, his tone shifting. Less teasing, more genuine admiration. “I admire that about you.”

A small warmth spread through my chest, because Christian didn’t compliment out of politeness. He meant it.

“In my work,” he continued, starting to get ready for bed too, “the most creativity I use is solving crises.”

He pulled his shirt off like it was nothing.

I stared like it was everything.

Christian either didn’t notice-or did and pretended not to, which was worse, because sometimes he did that on purpose. Just existing in front of me like he had no idea the effect he had.

“You like it,” I said, laughing to cover the fact that I had completely forgotten what I was doing with my hands.

He grabbed his pajama pants and, for a second, took longer than usual before answering.

“Of course,” he said.

The silence after that of course was small.

But I knew Christian.

Small silences with him were doors.

He kept going, like the words slipped out despite his control.

“But sometimes… it all feels very… repetitive.”

I turned to face him, leaning back against the counter, crossing my legs.

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“Repetitive?” 1 echoed.

He shrugged, but the weight was still there.

“I wake up, I fix things, I deal with people, I make decisions no one wants to make, I come home…” He paused. “And it feels like I need… a little adrenaline.”

I studied his face, trying to find what he wasn’t saying.

It wasn’t dissatisfaction.

It was… exhaustion from always being the same version of himself.

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