Hired a Gigolo Got a Billionaire (Zoey and Christian) novel Chapter 75

Chapter 75

After Francesca left, I remained on the veranda for a long time, her words swirling in my mind like leaves in a storm. I needed to find out more, to understand what had really happened years ago.

Lucy appeared with my coffee, and as she set the table, I decided this was my chance.

“Lucy?” I began hesitantly, trying to piece together my limited Valentian vocabulary. “Posso… ask… qualcosa?”

She smiled kindly and nodded.

“Francesca e Christian…” I hesitated, searching for words. “Molto tempo… insieme?”

Lucy frowned, trying to make sense of my broken question.

“Francesca e Mr. Christian?” She made a vague gesture with her hands. “Sì, sì. Da bambini. Cresciuti insieme.”

Grew up together. That much I already knew. I tried to ask something more specific.

“Francesca… bambino?” I asked, miming cradling a baby. “Con Christian?”

Lucy’s face shut down immediately. She shook her head vigorously, crossing herself.

“Non parliamo di questo. Tragedia. Tragedia!” She seemed genuinely distressed. “Isabelle non vuole che si parli di questo.”

Isabelle didn’t want it spoken of. Interesting. I tried another angle.

“Christian… triste? Quando… bambino… non più?”

Lucy gave me a look that was equal parts pity and caution. I was clearly touching on forbidden ground.

“Mrs. Kensington…” she began, then changed her mind and shrugged. “Christian molto triste, sì. Settimane nella sua stanza. Non parlava con nessuno.”

From what I understood, Christian had stayed shut in his room for weeks, speaking to no one. The loss had affected him deeply.

“Francesca… tornare? Dopo?” I asked, trying to understand when Francesca had returned to his life.

Lucy opened her mouth to answer, but a familiar voice interrupted.

“I think I’m witnessing the massacre of the beautiful Valentian language.”

Gwen was leaning against the doorway, a mischievous smile on her lips, though her eyes sparkled with curiosity.

“My apologies to your linguistic sensibilities,” I replied, relieved to speak normally again. “I’m just trying to broaden my horizons.”

“Asking about Francesca and Christian?” Her eyes were sharp. “Interesting choice of topic to practice Valentian with.”

Lucy seized the chance to retreat quickly, muttering something about bed linens. At least I was proud I understood that.

Gwen sat in the chair Francesca had occupied earlier, helping herself to the coffee.

“So, you ran into Francesca this morning?” she asked casually.

“How did you guess?”

“Because only after one of her poison doses would someone be desperate enough to interrogate Lucy,” Gwen said, taking a sip of coffee. “So, what did she say to rattle you this much?”

I hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. Gwen caught the pause.

“Let me guess,” she went on. “She brought up the baby, probably hinted that Christian had something to do with the abortion. Painting him as the villain is one of her favorite tactics.”

“He knows.” Gwen’s expression turned serious. “That’s why he keeps his distance. Not out of anger out of self- preservation. Being close to Francesca is like dancing with a poisonous snake.”

We finished our coffee in silence, each lost in thought. When Gwen finally stood to go, I reached out and touched her arm.

“Thank you. For telling me.”

“He deserves to be happy, Zoey.” She gave me a faint smile. “And for some mysterious reason, you seem to make him happy. Don’t let Francesca ruin that.”

The rest of the day drifted by in a blur of activity. I had my usual lesson with Gwen, then spent some time reading in the villa’s library. By dusk, I was emotionally drained and decided on a long bath before dinner.

When I stepped into the bedroom, I was met by the sight of dozens of small wildflower arrangements scattered around the room. In the center of the bed lay a burgundy velvet box with a simple card, ‘For my rarest grape. C.’

Inside was a delicate rose-gold necklace with a small pendant shaped like a cluster of grapes, each fruit a tiny amethyst glinting in deep violet shades-like the grapes from the vineyard that bore my name.

The gesture was perfectly romantic. Perfectly thoughtful. Perfectly… Christian.

I held the necklace in my hands, Francesca’s words echoing in my mind: “Christian has always been performative with his romantic gestures.”

Was this just another of his carefully staged performances? A role of Prince Charming he knew exactly how to play? Or was it real, like the moments we’d shared in the vineyards, beneath the stars?

I fastened the necklace, watching the tiny amethysts sparkle against my skin. The delicate pendant rested at the base of my throat, but somehow, I felt its weight much lower, pressing directly on my heart which was a constant reminder of the choice I’d soon have to make.

To believe in the Christian Francesca had described, capable of manipulation and cruelty.

Or to believe in the Christian I was coming to know, in Zoey Vineyards, under the starry Castorian sky.

Only time would reveal which one was real.