Beneath the Billionaire’s Lies [ MOVING TO GALATEA]

POV: Charles

It should’ve been a quiet morning.

Instead, it’s the anniversary of my mother’s death—a day I’d rather spend drowning in memories than standing on a construction site, trying to convince a stubborn bakery owner to sell the last scrap of land holding up our entire project.

Not that “convincing” works. Olivia Clark has ignored offers for over a year now. Every time we send a proposal, it comes back with the same polite but infuriating answer: Not for sale.

On any other day, I could tolerate it. But today… today everything feels numb.

It’s been a year without my mother. A year without the comfort of her voice, the warmth of her hugs, or those honey-colored eyes that could quiet every storm in my head.

My father and I barely speak anymore—not because we fought, but because we don’t know how to connect without her. She was the glue. Without her, it’s just silence, work, survival.

At least the business is thriving. Ludwig Enterprises has been devouring half the skyline these past five years, riding the city’s growth like a wave. This new project—a massive complex in the heart of downtown—will be our crown jewel. If we can get it done. If we can get her to sell.

I step onto the site, and instantly, the ass-kissers close in.

“Mr. Ludwig, good morning! Let me show you—”

The head engineer is practically glued to my side, spewing updates like an auctioneer. Something about deadlines. Something about workers quitting. I nod, pretending to listen, but my patience is paper-thin today.

“You’re here to manage this, Matthew,” I cut in gently. “I sign the checks. You solve the problems.”

He swallows and tries to smile, then waves me toward the blueprint table. I half-listen as he talks about glass façades, prime real estate, and future tenants lining up with blank checks. He’s right—it’s a beautiful building, and the location will make it a gold mine.

But all I can think about is how heavy the air feels without her in it.

How she would love to see this happen.

Then it happens.

One second, I’m walking past the cement mixer. The next, someone trips, and a half-filled bucket of wet concrete arcs through the air.

It lands on me.

Cold, gritty sludge seeps through my suit jacket, dripping down my shirt, heavy and disgusting.

Perfect. Just perfect.

“Shit—sorry, boss!” a worker calls, already scrambling for towels.

I don’t even have the energy to yell. Not today. I just stand there, dripping, while Matthew rushes over, peeling the jacket off me like I’m a child who can’t dress himself.

“Here, take mine,” he says, thrusting a navy sweater into my hands. His name is stitched above the pocket—MATHEW in neat white letters.

I could refuse. I could insist on going back to my car, changing into one of the spare suits I keep on hand. But honestly? I don’t care. I just need to get this meeting over with.

So I pull the sweater on, ignore the scratchy fabric against my skin, and head down the street toward Clark’s Bakery.

I cut across the street toward Clark’s Bakery, and of course I manage to arrive exactly when the construction workers take their coffee break. The sidewalk is clogged with dust-streaked boots, and the little bell above the bakery door gives me away the second I step inside.

Great. How could this day get worse?

I scan the room, already rehearsing the lines I need: Find Olivia Clark. Convince her to sell. Don’t make it personal.

People like her always thought passion could win against contracts and concrete. But I’d never lost a deal, not once. And I wasn’t about to start with a bakery.

But then I see her.

A pair of eyes lift from behind the counter and meet mine, and my brain—already hanging by a thread—flatlines completely. Warm, golden brown, a shade I’ve only ever seen in one person before… my mother. For a heartbeat, I can’t move. Can’t breathe. Her hair is a halo of pale waves, her smile quick and unguarded, and it hits me like I’ve been sucker-punched right in the chest.

He remembered my mother’s sweetness, the way she could quiet a storm just by smiling. My world tilted on its axis, and in all the grief I was still drowning in, I let myself just… watch her.

“Ten-minute coffee, Matthew.”

Her voice breaks through the fog, and I realize she’s talking to me. She glances at my sweater—the one the site engineer shoved at me after the concrete incident—and then back at my face.

I blinked, aware of the sweater stitched with that name. My first instinct was to correct her, but then I saw the gentle curve of her smile, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.

“You must be the engineer,” she added, glancing at my messy sleeves. “The guys talk about you, but I’ve never seen you here.”

I open my mouth to correct her, to tell her I’m not Matthew, but then she laughs. God help me, she laughs—and it’s devastating.

“You’ve only got ten minutes? That’s criminal. You should have twenty just to try the focaccia.” She’s already reaching for a plate. “I’ll throw in a cappuccino. You like lattes, right? I make a mean cappuccino. Wait here.”

I should stop her. I should tell her my name. I should say I’m not here for coffee or bread or anything except to talk to Olivia Clark into selling this place so my project can move forward. But I don’t.

Because for some reason, standing here, I’d give a million dollars just to keep her talking to me.

She turns back with a cup and a warm, fragrant wedge of bread. “Here. Tell me that’s not the best cappuccino you’ve ever had.”

She handed me the warm cup, her fingers brushing mine for the briefest second, and smiled. “By the way… blue really suits you. This sweater? It makes your eyes… gorgeous.”

I froze. My mind stuttered. Normally, women want the fortune, the name, the power. Compliments like this… genuine, noticing me, were rare. I just managed to murmur, “Thank… you.”

I take a sip, and my eyes close before I can stop them. It’s absurdly good—better than anything I had in Italy last year, and I didn’t think that was possible.

“Nutmeg,” she says.

I blink. “What?”

“That’s the secret. Nutmeg. Don’t tell anyone. The other bakeries don’t know.” Her grin is conspiratorial, like we’re in on something together.

I bite into the focaccia, and it’s ridiculous—crispy outside, tender inside, olive oil and herbs that melt into my tongue. I swallow, about to ask for Mrs. Clark—

“Olivia,” someone behind me calls. “Can I get a refill?”

She turns to pour more coffee for a man in a hard hat, and the pieces click into place. Olivia Clark. This girl. This angel. The warm eyes and devastating smile. She’s the one I came here to convince to sell.

And the door swung open and a man in a wheelchair was guided inside. Olivia’s face shifted, and she turned to me quickly.

“Oh! Matthew… just a minute, please. I’ll be right back.”

She hurried over to the man, who wheezed slightly as he settled into the bakery.

“Here it is, Olivia,” he said with a small smile. “Hope your mom doesn’t break this again this month. I hate to say it, but this chair… it won’t last much longer.”

Olivia groaned, running a hand through her hair. “Don’t tell me, it broke twice last month already, and now this? I… I just can’t afford a new one. Mom needs to be happy with what we’ve got.”

“And how’s Sandra?” the man asked gently.

“She’s… surviving, I guess,” Olivia said, her voice softening. “Without her wheelchair, she’s grumpier than ever. It’s awful—when she’s grumpy, it makes my day a thousand times harder. I just put her in front of the TV with some focaccia and coffee, praying she doesn’t call me at a high-movement moment.”

He chuckled softly, she handed him a slice of focaccia,and gave him some money. She moved with such care and patience, so steady and kind, and I felt… hypnotized.

Watching her handle this, juggling everything with warmth and humor, I realized two things at once:

This girl—Olivia Clark—was extraordinary.

I couldn’t tell her who I really was, not yet.

Maybe tomorrow I’d do what I came here to do. Maybe tomorrow I’d convince her to sell

“You should come back tomorrow,” she said suddenly, as if she’d read my thoughts. “I make the best croissants in the city. Even the Ludwigs couldn’t ruin your morning if you had one.”

I smiled, but inside, the truth burned like hot metal. She didn’t know I was the Ludwig she hated—and that tomorrow, I’d be the reason her world tilted too.

And just like that, I know this day has the potential to get a whole lot more complicated.