Hired a Gigolo, Got a Billionaire のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 91 - チャプター 100

Anthony Kensington stood just a few steps from me, his elegant figure standing out among the guests. With a calculated smile that never reached his eyes, he extended one of the two glasses of champagne he held in my direction. "A woman like you shouldn't be alone at a party like this," he remarked, his voice smooth as velvet, but with a note that sent an uncomfortable shiver down my spine. "Thank you, but I'd rather stick with water tonight," I declined politely, lifting my nearly empty glass. "Not drinking?" His gaze drifted slowly over my body, lingering far too long on certain places before returning to my face. "Interesting." There was something in the way he said that simple word that made me feel utterly exposed. "I'm just not in the mood," I replied, keeping my voice firm despite the growing discomfort. "Christian has always been lucky," Anthony commented, completely ignoring my response as he stepped closer. "Even his more... impulsive decisions seem to work in his

Christian's POV "Christian, I..." Zoey slowly pushed herself up, bracing against the bathroom counter. Her eyes flicked to the pregnancy test, then back to me. "It's not what you think." I forced myself to look away from the box and focus on her. The cold bathroom light only sharpened the paleness of her face, deepening the shadows under her eyes. "What am I thinking?" My voice came out surprisingly calm, considering the storm inside my head. "Annabelle brought that earlier." She gestured vaguely toward the test. "She's got this crazy theory that I'm pregnant just because I've been sick a few times. She insisted I take it, but..." A crazy theory. Of course. I drew in a slow breath, trying to order my thoughts. "Maybe she's right," I suggested, keeping my tone neutral. "You've been unwell. It would be wise to check." Zoey shook her head, gripping the counter tightly. "It's not necessary. We've always been careful." "Always?" The word slipped out before I could stop it,

The grand entry hall of the Kensington estate welcomed us with its silent luxury, the marble floors reflecting our figures like discreet mirrors. Christian kept his hand at my back, a gesture of support that had become almost instinctive over the past few hours. "Viral infection," he said, repeating Dr. Mendes's diagnosis as if still processing it. "At least now we know what's been causing the nausea." "Everything's always a virus," I replied with a faint smile, slipping off my shoes to feel the cool marble beneath my feet. "Fever? Virus. Headache? Virus. Zombie apocalypse? Probably just a very aggressive virus." Christian laughed, the sound echoing through the empty hall, filling the space with an unexpected lightness. His face softened into that rare, genuine smile that always caught me off guard—as if, for a moment, all the tension of the past days had simply lifted. "Well, the important thing is that you're going to be fine." He brushed back a strand of hair that had slippe

The afternoon settled slowly over the Kensington estate, painting the vineyards in shades of gold and orange. After a full day of forced rest with Christian personally supervising my intake of fluids and medicine with almost comical intensity, I finally felt strong enough to leave the bedroom. I walked through the gardens, breathing in the fresh air I'd missed so much. The virus had eased, leaving only a lingering fatigue and a hunger that was finally starting to return after a liquid diet. Christian had insisted on coming with me, but an urgent call from Marcus about the Niharan investors had demanded his attention. "Ten minutes," he promised, kissing my forehead before heading back inside. "Don't go far." The garden was a sophisticated labyrinth of meticulously trimmed hedges and classical statues. Joseph had mentioned it was a replica of a Castorian garden, designed by his own father when the mansion was built. I found a stone bench half-hidden by a tall hedge, the perfect s

The bedroom door clicked softly shut behind us. Christian walked straight into the bathroom, unbuttoning his bloodstained shirt with sharp, impatient movements. I followed him in, still trying to process what had happened in the garden. "Take off your shirt," I said as I stepped into the spacious bathroom, where he had already opened the first aid cabinet. "I need to see how much damage he did." Christian shot me a look that was equal parts exhaustion and stubborn, almost childlike defiance. "I'm fine. Most of this is his blood." "Shirt. Off." My voice was firm. "Now." Something in my tone must have told him I wasn't going to argue about it. With a resigned sigh, he finally stripped the ruined shirt away, revealing a torso that—despite the circumstances—was still hard not to notice. But my attention went immediately to the dark purple bruise spreading across his right ribs. "Just a bruise," he muttered, catching my stare. "And your face." I pointed at the cut above his ey