Semua Bab Hired a Gigolo, Got a Billionaire: Bab 131 - Bab 140

It was the fifth day at Silvercrest Medical Center. I'd already lost count of how many times I'd walked those halls, how many cups of coffee I'd gulped down from the machine in the lobby, or how many mornings I'd woken up at five just to get there early and be with Christian. My routine had turned rigid: wake up, fight off the morning sickness with the cookies Annie had bought especially for that, take a quick shower, then rush to the hospital before the doctors started their seven a.m. rounds. I stayed all day, only slipping out for a quick lunch when Christian insisted, and didn't leave until the nurses gently kicked me out at the end of visiting hours. The pregnancy symptoms were getting harder to ignore. Morning sickness had become a constant companion, and the fatigue was something I fought through sheer willpower. Christian had noticed, of course. He noticed everything. "Zoey, you need to go home and rest," he told me yesterday afternoon, after catching me dozing off in the

"What is it?" Marcus asked right away, his voice sharp with urgency. "Zoey, what did you see?" "That sticker," I said, pointing to the corner of the SUV's rear windshield where the small decal was clearly visible. "I recognize that sticker." Annie leaned closer, frowning as she studied the image. "Wait… that's the Búzios Surf Club sticker," she said slowly, and then her eyes widened. "You're the one who put it there, right? Remember? You said the back window looked too plain and needed some personality." The memory hit me like a slap. A weekend in Búzios, back when Alex and I were still together. He'd complained that his new car looked too boring, and I'd jokingly stuck that little beach-shop sticker on it. He'd gotten mad, saying I'd "ruined his car," but later he laughed and left it there. "Hold on, hold on." Marcus raised his hands, completely lost. "Who are we talking about here? Whose car is that?" "It's Alex's," I whispered, barely able to believe it myself. "Alex w

"Finally home," I sighed, unlocking the apartment door while Christian followed behind me. "Home," he echoed, pulling me into a gentle kiss before the door even closed. "Wherever you are." I smiled against his lips, feeling that familiar warmth spread through me. Of course, he wouldn't be staying long—just until he was cleared to fly again, maybe a week or two. Then it would be back to our routine: him in Highridge Valley, me in Solara. But for now, for these precious few days, we'd have a taste of real domestic life. No hospital schedules, no nurses interrupting, no constant beeping monitors. Just us. "It feels so good to be out of that place," he said, breathing deeply like he was inhaling freedom. "To wake up without the sound of machines, to sleep without someone checking my vitals every two hours…" "And to have your own private nurse," I teased, giving him a playful look. "Much better than the ones at the hospital," he murmured, stealing another kiss. Then he suddenly

Christian's POV Sitting in the back seat of Marcus's car, I adjusted the tiny earpiece for the third time in the last five minutes. The sound was clear—I could hear every word of the conversation between Zoey and Alex through the recorder hidden in her purse. But it wasn't doing a damn thing to calm me down. "Relax, man," Marcus muttered from the driver's seat, watching me through the rearview mirror. "You look like some obsessive stalker." "Shut up, Marcus," I ground out, my eyes locked on the café window where I could make out the shapes of Zoey and Alex. "He's not wrong," Annie said from the passenger seat, a teasing smile on her lips. "You're practically chewing your nails off. It's kinda cute, actually." Alex's voice came through the earpiece, smooth and smug in a way that made my fists clench automatically. "Zoey, you look amazing. You always knew how to drive me crazy, didn't you?" Annabelle let out a low whistle. "Wow. He's not wasting any time, is he?" "Annie,"

The smell of grilled meat in my parents' backyard took me straight back to childhood—those Sundays that were practically sacred, filled with family chatter and my dad's famous barbecue. Today was no different, except now Christian was sitting in one of those old plastic chairs by the grill, listening intently to my dad's stories. It was almost funny seeing him there—this man who usually moved through black-tie events and five-star restaurants—so completely at ease in our modest backyard. Polo shirt, jeans, a beer in hand. He looked like he'd been born for it. My dad had insisted Christian stay close to the grill to "supervise," which, of course, meant being bombarded with anecdotes and unsolicited advice about seasoning. "Zoey," my mom called from the kitchen doorway, carrying a tray of salads, "your pregnant-lady food is ready. And before you ask, yes, I washed everything three times." I smiled, taking the tray from her. Ever since we'd told my parents about the pregnancy, my mo