Hired a Gigolo, Got a Billionaire

Chapter 223 I got home at six thirty after a day that felt like it would never end. Even though I'd managed to redeem myself in the break room earlier, I was still emotionally drained. Between the leftover humiliation from the party, the weird sense of relief after swapping bad date stories, and that message I couldn't stop thinking about, my brain was running on fumes. I kicked off my shoes the second I walked into the apartment, tossed my bag on the couch, and realized I had absolutely nothing for dinner.

The fridge held a single expired yogurt and some leftovers I couldn't remember ordering. "Pizza it is," I muttered to the empty apartment, grabbing my phone to order from my favorite place. While I waited, I opened a bottle of wine I had "borrowed" from the office. Perks of working at Kensington. Then I collapsed onto the couch. The quiet in the apartment suddenly felt too loud, too lonely. Moments like this made London feel farther from Verdania than any map ever could. No familiar voices. No comforting chaos of my parents' house.

Without overthinking it, I grabbed my phone and sent a message to Zoey, [I miss our pajama nights. Want to do a video call and watch a movie 'together'? Like old times?] Her reply came faster than expected, [I love the idea, but Matt is with the grandparents tonight, and what Christian and I planned does not involve pajamas or anything suitable for a video call.] I laughed out loud in the empty room. [Gross, but jealous. Now I have to erase that mental image.] [You asked! But really, how about tomorrow?

We can marathon something cheesy and you can tell me all about your London love life.] [My love life is an epic disaster. Better talk about something else.] [Which is exactly why I need to hear everything. Love you, baby sis!] I set th e aside with a smile, but the silence crept back in. The pizza arrived twenty minutes later, a simple that paired perfectly with the wine. I settled onto the couch and put on The Third Man on Netflix. It ng, considering my recent obsession with mysterious men. ut as the movie played, my mind kept drifting back to that message.

There was something about the way it was written. A certain elegance. A strange familiarity I couldn't place. Who talked about London getting "brighter" with the right company in such a poetic tone? By nine o'clock, I couldn't resist anymore. I paused the movie, grabbed my phone, and opened the dating app. The message was still there, staring back at me. [I love that you want to 'explore the city together.' I have a theory London gets brighter with the right company. Can you confirm it?] I tapped his profile for the first time, ready to investigate. What I found only pulled me in deeper.

showed only well-kept masculine hands holding an old book, a cup of coffee blurred in the background. It was frustrating and intriguing at the same time. Normally, I'd run from a profile like that. Men who hid their faces usually

They felt... intentional. Artistic. Like he wanted to show a lifestyle and a personality without giving away a face. And the body I could glimpse in

the chat and block the profile. Every self-preservation instinct I'd built over the years was screaming at me to run the other way. But that damn message... There was something about it that hit me in a way I couldn't explain. The way he used the word "brighter." The smoothness of

London sounds promising, but exploring the city with someone as mysterious as you makes me feel like I'm in a Hitchcock film. Should I worry about ending

dots to appear. Five minutes, ten, then fifteen. There was nothing. "Ridiculous ing the phone down harder than necessary. determined not to think about the mysterious man who apparently wasn't glued to his message the way I was waiting for his. Orson Welles was being especially cryptic on ted focusing

other things I'd been trying Lo bury since Friday night. The way Nate had shown up out of nowhere when Charles wouldn't back off. That perfect punch. His instinctive protectiveness. The way he guided me out of the

I hadn't been able to stop thinking about Annie. Especially because of the message I'd received more than twenty-four hours ago and still hadn't answered. I picked up my phone and opened the app again, rereading it for the tenth time. [Your theory about a sunnier London sounds promising, but exploring the city with someone as mysterious as you makes me feel like I'm in a Hitchcock film. Should I worry about ending up like the woman in Rear Window?] That ridiculous smile spread across my face again, just like every