Love Lies And My Ceo

Chapter four

William pov

She said yes.

The words shocked even me, but I didn’t take them back.

Most women would’ve hesitated, played coy. Not her. She panicked, then surrendered, like a cornered deer forcing herself to stand still.

Interesting.

The next day. I straightened the cuff of my jacket as my driver pulled up in front of the store Charlotte had asked us to pick her up. From the outside, I couldn’t read the woman who stepped toward me. She has sleek hair, a crisp cream blouse, a black skirt, all poise and precision. Exactly the image I’d expected from Charlotte Thompson.

I noticed a faint, almost shy smile as she approached, and I felt a strange tug in my chest.

She greeted me with a polite smile, which was not too warm and not too distant either. Perfect. Or so it seemed. Her eyes lingered on mine for a heartbeat longer than necessary, and I felt a subtle warmth spread through me.

We didn’t waste time. My assistant had already prepared the agreement, and the pages lay out on my living room coffee table when we arrived at my place.

“Six weeks,” I said as she scanned the document. “In that time, you’ll attend dinners, charity events, and any functions I request. Publicly, we’ve been dating for eight months. Privately, you’ll have full discretion to say no to anything outside the scope of this arrangement.”

She nodded, but there was something in her eyes, a second of doubt, before she lowered them to sign.

“And,” I added, “most importantly, you’ll meet my grandfather today. Your job is to make him believe you’re the woman I’ve chosen for the long haul.”

Her pen stilled over the paper. “And if he doesn’t?”

“Then this arrangement is over before it begins.”

I didn’t let her know the truth, that if my grandfather disapproved, every plan I’d been building for the last two years would begin to crumble. Because he was afraid that I would never get married. My expansion into the European market depends on whether this works out. Optics mattered, but my grandfather's approval mattered more.

She signed without another word. Her handwriting was neat, deliberate like a woman who thought before committing anything to paper.

The drive to my grandfather’s estate was tranquil. I didn't know if it was because it was sudden. But I couldn't help but study her in the reflection of the tinted glass. Charlotte Thompson was known for her sharp wit and flawless social grace, but there was something…unusual, or shall I say softer here. Almost like she was readying herself.

A quick, almost imperceptible smile crossed her face as she caught my gaze in the glass. I felt my pulse jump unexpectedly.

The gates of the Smith mansion were opened like the beginning of a test I hadn’t prepared for. My grandfather’s estate had a way of sending shivers to visitors with all that manicured perfection, every blade of grass trimmed to military precision and every path lined with marble statues that stared as though they knew your secrets.

And today, I have a secret, which is: I didn’t know if “Charlotte” would pass his interrogation.

As we stepped out, I caught her retracing her steps. She was scanning the entrance, the towering columns, the glass doors glittering in the late morning sun. As if she were intimidated, she hid her expression very well.

My old man was already waiting for us in the veranda, cane in hand, with that same sharp-eyed expression as if he was about to enter a board meeting that had scared off so many competitors for decades now. Brown Smith didn’t shake hands; he measured people. I knew “Charlotte” had to convince him not only that we were dating, but that we’d been dating for a long time. And he’d sniff out insincerity faster than anyone I knew.

As we moved further, she smiled not the stiff, rehearsed socialite smile I’d expected, but something warm enough to feel real. Strange.

“Grandfather,” I greeted.

“William,” he answered me, his voice deep, calm with age but carrying a firm authority. His gaze shifted to her, and I felt him examine every inch of her. “And this must be Charlotte Thompson.”

She stepped forward with confidence, extending her hand. “It’s an honour to finally meet you, Mr. Smith.”

“You say ‘finally’ like you’ve been waiting a long time,” he said, not shaking her hand but letting the remark hang.

“I have,” she answered, without hesitation. “William speaks of you often.”

I stiffened slightly. I didn’t, not really. But her voice was steady, her smile sure.

We moved inside, the manor’s wide halls wrapping around us with their heavy oak panelling and scent of old books. A maid brought tea into the drawing room, and we sat in a triangle, Grandfather in his high-backed chair, “Charlotte” on the settee, and me opposite her.

We sat, and the conversation began politely, surface-level at first. She asked about his garden, his collection of antique clocks, and even a particular painting on the far wall. Each question landed well. Mr Brown was smiling within minutes, which was more than I could say for most people who met him.

I found myself watching her more than him. She leaned in slightly when my grandfather mentioned his garden, her eyes flicking to the window as though she could already picture it. When he spoke of his antique clocks, she tilted her head and asked which one kept the most accurate time. Each glance, each pause, felt effortless like she was reading him, not reciting lines.

It was impressive.

Almost too impressive.

Because while she looked every inch the part of Charlotte Thompsons, there was an undercurrent to her a way she seemed almost surprised when she succeeded. Charlotte was born into the social arena; she wouldn’t marvel at her own performance.

But I pushed the thought aside. Whatever her methods, they were working. My grandfather was engaged, even laughing once a rare, short chuckle at something she’d said about old traditions and new beginnings.

Lunch was served in the sunroom. My grandfather quizzed her on everything from travel to business ethics, and she met him stride for stride.

My grandfather leaned forward. “So. Tell me, how did you and my grandson meet?”

Her eyes slid briefly to mine, as if asking permission, before she began. “At a business conference in Singapore. We were both too polite to admit the event was dull, so we ended up talking by the coffee stand for hours. He mentioned his work, I mentioned mine… and somehow, we haven’t stopped talking since.”

It was seamless. Charlotte’s background did include trips to Singapore, and this was almost word-for-word one of the cover stories we’d agreed on.

I studied her as she spoke the calm cadence of her voice, the measured pauses. But beneath that… there was a spark of improvisation. A willingness to fill in gaps without blinking.

Grandfather tilted his head. “And what is it you like most about my grandson?”

I braced myself. This was always the trap. Praise too much and it sounded false; too little and it showed disinterest.

She smiled slowly, deliberately. “He listens.”

That caught me off guard. People usually said I was strategic, determined, and ambitious. Listening wasn’t a trait often attributed to me.

“Even when he disagrees,” she continued, “he gives you space to speak. He’ll tell you the truth, even when it’s not what you want to hear. That’s… rare.”

Her words landed heavier than they should have. I told myself it was just a good performance.

My grandfather sipped his tea, eyes narrowed not in suspicion, but in calculation. “Hm.”

She’d clearly memorised everything.

Yet it didn’t feel robotic. She started turning the main point into stories that kept him listening. She would laugh softly when recalling moments that never happened and managed to make the lies feel real.

I caught the brief sparkle in her eyes when my grandfather smiled at her, and it hit me harder than I expected.

And then it happened.

“William has always been particular about his travels,” my grandfather said. His eyes narrowed, sharp and deliberate. “Remind me, what was that beach in Busan you took him to last summer?”

My stomach dropped. I had never mentioned Busan—not in the contract, not in her file.

For the first time, her mask slipped. The pause was slight, barely a heartbeat, but I caught it. Her fingers tightened around her teacup before she forced a smile.

“Busan,” she echoed, too brightly. “Of course. That’s… where we first met, wasn’t it?” Her fingers tightened slightly on the teacup. I noticed, and for the first time, I wasn’t just impressed by her cleverness I felt… intrigued.

Grandfather’s low chuckle filled the room, indulgent, almost amused.

But I didn’t laugh.

That wasn’t the story we’d agreed on. And the way she recovered, too smooth, too practiced, told me something else. She was lying.

That wasn’t true. I knew it. And so did my grandfather. She recovered too fast like someone used to lying. I let my face stay smooth, but my questions stacked up like cards in a deck. Who was she really? And how long until she slipped again?

My grandfather didn’t press, but his eyes lingered. She thought she’d escaped but she hadn’t. And from

the way his silence stretched, I knew he smelled blood.

She thought she had escaped. But I knew the game had just begun.