Hired a Gigolo, Got a Billionaire

Chapter 680 Gwen's POV The air outside hit my face like a cold slap when | stepped out of the event building. It wasn't even a cold day, but | was burning from the inside out. Burning with anger. With adrenaline. With the shame of losing control. With a disbelief that made everything feel slightly off balance. | kept my spine straight. Chin up. The same expression | used in meetings with men who thought | should be grateful just to be sitting at the table. Except this time, it wasn't a table. It was a patrol car. "Ms. Kensington, please," the officer repeated.

His tone wasn't rude, but it wasn't optional either. I glanced around the parking lot, as if logic might be hiding somewhere between the concrete lines. "This is... serious?" | asked, and my voice came out steadier than | felt. 'There has been a report of assault," he replied, professional and detached. "The person who filed the report has visible injuries ---- consistent with that claim. We need to bring you in for questioning." Visible injuries. A wave of nausea rose in my throat. Consistent with what? "It was a fight," | said, already hating the word. "An argument that escalated.

I'm hurt too." The officer's gaze moved to my mouth. To the thin scratches along my forearm, now stinging as the adrenaline began to fade. He didn't look sympathetic. He looked like he was documenting. "You can explain that at the station, Ms. Kensington." Inside the car, | closed my eyes for a moment. | thought about Nick. About Bella. About how everything always seemed to collapse at once, like life kept a checklist and took pleasure in crossing off disasters in clusters. 'Don't cry. Not now.' We arrived too quickly. Police stations don't have glamour anywhere in the world.

They all smell the same. Old paper. Metal. Contained sweat. The same low hum of voices, keyboards tapping, doors opening and closing. ---- | handed over my ID. Signed a form. Stated my full name, date of birth, address. With every answer, | felt like pieces of me were being reduced to lines on a page. "Do you have an attorney?" someone asked. | almost laughed. The irony was sharp enough to be beautiful. | had an entire legal team, and not one of them was sitting next to me. "Yes," | said. "But that won't be necessary. It was... it was a normal fight.

with his pen. "Have a seat. Someone will call you." | sat in a hard chair beneath harsh white lighting that made everything look exhausted. Time passed in chunks. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Another fifteen. | wasn't wearing a watch, but | could feel it in my body, the way anxiety builds and starts gnawing at you.

scenes where the innocent person says, "! want a lawyer," and ---- the whole room shifts. | wasn't innocent. | had hit her. But | wasn't the monster she was about to paint. "Tell us what happened," the officer said,

| didn't have the energy to invent something cleaner. "She provoked me. And | lost control." His pen paused for

under the table. "Just the hallway cameras. They'll show both of us going in... and they'll show me leaving." "And after that?" "I don't know." "Was there any damage to the property?" | swallowed. "No. It was... intact." More notes. | signed the statement with a hand that didn't feel like

exam," the officer said. "An exam?' | let out a short, humorless laugh. "I didn't kill anyone. He looked at me with the patience of someone who wasn't living my life. "It's procedure. To document injuries. Including yours." So | went. The hallway at the medical office had a different kind of silence. Clinical. Cold. The doctor examined the scratches on my arm, took photographs, wrote everything down. She cleaned the cut at the