Hired a Gigolo Got a Billionaire (Zoey and Christian) novel Chapter 80

Chapter 80

Our last night in Valentia coincided with the closing of the Harvest Festival. We had been at the celebration for nearly two hours, weaving through food stalls, local wines, and handmade crafts. The festival was even livelier than the first night, with musicians playing on every corner and young people dancing in the cobblestone streets.

Christian looked completely at ease-more relaxed than I had ever seen him back in Verdania. He chatted fluently in Valentian with the locals, many of whom had known him since childhood, and introduced me with a pride that didn’t feel forced. To the community, we were simply a young couple in love, savoring an Valentian night.

“You have to try this,” he said, handing me a small cup of golden liquid. “Homemade lemon liqueur. Signora Ricci’s recipe is legendary around here.”

I tasted it, feeling the warmth of the alcohol blend with the citrusy sweetness.

“It’s delicious!” I exclaimed, genuinely impressed.

The elderly woman who had served us smiled, saying something in Valentian that made Christian laugh.

“What did she say?” I asked as we walked away.

“She said you have good taste… in liqueurs and in husbands.” His smile was both charming and smug, and I couldn’t help but laugh.

“Clearly she doesn’t know you as well as she thinks.”

He feigned offense, placing a hand dramatically over his heart.

“You wound my Valentian ego, Signora Kensington.”

A small pang hit me at the title. It was so easy to forget, here in this enchanted place, that Signora Kensington was only a role I was playing temporarily.

We kept walking, stopping to watch a group of traditional dancers in the center of the square. Children ran with colorful ribbons, elderly couples clapped along with the music, and the air was thick with the scents of food, wine, and pure joy. There was an authenticity to this celebration that was absent from the sophisticated events we attended in Verdania.

Christian bought me a flower crown from a little girl, placing it on thy head with almost reverent care.

“Perfect,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving mine.

The moment was interrupted by an older man who approached Christian, embracing him warmly and pulling him into a lively conversation. While I waited, I observed the families around us-parents with children on their shoulders, grandparents holding hands with their grandchildren, couples of every age enjoying the evening. I wondered, not for the first time, what it would feel like to truly belong to this world.

After another hour of wandering, Christian suggested we take a break. We found a small empty table at a café on the corner of the square, with a perfect view of the festivities. As the waiter brought our espressos, Christian seemed pensive, almost serious compared to the lighthearted mood he’d been in earlier.

“What are you thinking about?” I asked, adjusting the flower crown that was starting to slip.

He hesitated, as if carefully choosing his words.

“Our honeymoon is coming to an end,” he said at last. “I think we need to discuss some practical matters.”

“What kind of practical matters?”

“Like where we’re going to live.”

The question caught me completely off guard. In all our planning and conversations about the agreement, we had never touched on that detail. It was as if we had both consciously avoided thinking about the day-to-day reality of our staged marriage.

“I… never thought about it,” I admitted.

“It’s not the same,” I argued. “I want to be near them, not just drop by occasionally.”

An uncomfortable silence tell between us. It was our first real clash over our marriage,

“Or we could live separately,” I suggested, trying to sound casual. A lot of couples do that these days. Each with their own space.

Something flickered across Christian’s face-a shadow I couldn’t quite place.

“That’s an option too,” he agreed, his voice carefully neutral. “It’s not like our marriage is real, anyway.”

The words came out easily, but hearing them stung. It was the trut, of course. Our arrangement, our contract. But after everything we had shared in Valentia-the nights in the vineyards the conversations under the stars, the meals with Lucy, the lessons with Gwen–it felt like we were diminishing something that had grown into more.

And by the way Christian’s expression tightened ever so slightly, fealized he had felt it too. For a moment, neither of us spoke, letting the sounds of the festival around us fill the silence.

“We can talk about this later,” he said finally, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “This is our last night at the festival. Let’s enjoy it.”

I nodded, relieved to postpone the conversation. Christian paid the bill and offered me his hand, guiding me back to the square where the music had grown livelier.

As we joined the locals in a traditional circle dance, I tried to lose myself in the moment, in the simple joy of being there. But one phrase kept echoing in my mind.

It’s not like our marriage is real, anyway.

The problem was, to me, it was starting to feel very real. And that was possibly the scariest thing I had ever felt.