From Lies to Love: My Rival Husband

The moment my mother cleared her throat over Sunday lunch, I knew I was in trouble.

She had that look the one she used before announcing she'd enrolled me in "just a few" extracurricular piano lessons at age nine that turned into competitive recitals until I was seventeen. The same look she had the week she "accidentally" set me up on a date with the neighbor's cousin.

"Darling," she began, and my stomach sank, "your father and I were thinking..."

Here it comes.

"...you're twenty-eight, you're doing so well at that little tech company of yours"

"Mom, it's a top-five national firm."

"Yes, yes, but what's success without someone to share it with?"

Across the table, my brother smirked. He'd brought his girlfriend, who was currently charming my grandmother with stories about how they met in a bookstore. I stabbed a piece of chicken like it had personally offended me.

"I'm... busy," I said.

"You're lonely," Mom countered.

"I'm fine."

"You need a man."

And that's when it happened the moment that will live in my personal Hall of Fame for Terrible Decisions.

"I have one," I blurted.

Silence. The clink of cutlery stopped. Four pairs of eyes locked on me.

"You... what?" Mom asked.

I nodded, somehow committing to the lie before my brain had caught up.

"A boyfriend. He's uh wonderful. Great job. Very... supportive."

Grandma leaned forward. "Does he have teeth?"

"Of course he has teeth!" I snapped, too loudly.

My father's eyes narrowed. "What's his name?"

My mind went blank. "L –Leo." No, that was the name of my high school crush. "Liam."The name of my most hated competition rolled of my tongue.

Too late

And that was it. One little lie, tossed onto the table between the roast chicken and the mashed potatoes, snowballing faster than I could catch it.

"Bring him to the reunion," Mom said, eyes sparkling.

"Reunion?"

"This Saturday. Everyone will be there."

"Everyone?" My voice cracked.

Grandma grinned. "Can't wait to meet the man who finally stole our Mia's heart."

The rest of lunch was a blur. I nodded at questions about "Liam's" hobbies, mumbled something about him loving golden retrievers, and tried not to choke on my water when Dad asked what his parents did for a living.

By the time dessert was served, my fake boyfriend had been given a promotion, a summer home, and an allergy to strawberries.

When I finally escaped into my car, I slammed my forehead against the steering wheel. "Great, Mia. Just great."

I had five days to conjure up a Liam out of thin air.

And that's when my phone buzzed with a news alert.

Local Tech Rival Secures Spot in National Expansion Pitch.

I tapped the link. And there he was Liam Wolfe. My infuriating, smug, ridiculously good-looking rival from a competing firm. The man who'd stolen my biggest client last year.

My fake boyfriend had just gotten a face.

By Monday morning, my "brilliant" lie was starting to feel less like quick thinking and more like social suicide.

Work was my sanctuary, my territory. Here, I didn't have to dodge questions about my personal life or pretend to be someone I wasn't. Here, I could bury myself in spreadsheets and contracts and be safely, blissfully single.

At least, that was the plan.

"Morning, Mia," called Jared from marketing, waving a coffee at me. "Did you see the WolfeTech press release?"

I kept walking toward my glass-walled office. "Nope. Not interested."

He jogged to keep up. "They're presenting at the National Expansion Summit. Guess who's leading the pitch?"

"I don't care."

"Liam Wolfe."

I stopped mid-stride. "Of course he is."

The man was everywhere lately business blogs, industry panels, even on the cover of Tech Innovators Monthly. And every time I saw his stupidly perfect jawline and confident smirk, I remembered the way he'd smiled at me the day he poached my client, like he'd just won a championship.

I'd sworn then that I'd never speak to him unless it was to tell him I'd beaten him.

But now...

I stared at the photo on Jared's tablet. Liam in a perfectly tailored suit, shaking hands with some investor. He looked like the kind of man who could sell air to a drowning person and he was exactly the sort of guy my family would believe I was dating.

If only he didn't make my blood boil.

By lunchtime, I was at my desk, staring at an email draft I'd typed and deleted five times.

Subject: A mutually beneficial proposal.

I hated that I was even considering this. But the reunion was in five days. I had two options: show up with a random hired actor who might forget the story we agreed on or... rope in someone who was smart, quick, and could keep up the act without breaking a sweat.

Someone like Liam.

I typed faster before I could talk myself out of it.

Liam,

We both have... situations that could be improved with the right arrangement. I have a family event that requires a convincing partner. You have a business image to maintain for your upcoming pitch. Let's discuss a short-term... collaboration.

Mia Cross

I hit send and immediately regretted every life choice that had led me here.

An hour later, my phone buzzed. Unknown number.

"Mia Cross," I answered.

"Collaboration?" The voice was deep, amused, and irritatingly familiar. "I almost thought it was a joke."

"Liam Wolfe," I said flatly.

"To what do I owe the honor?"

"I already told you. I need a... temporary husband."

A pause. Then, laughter. "You're serious."

"Dead serious. It's just for a weekend. You pretend to adore me in front of my family, I pretend to think you're a decent human being in front of your investors."

"You do know I have options, right?"

"So do I," I lied.

Another pause. Then: "Dinner tonight. We'll discuss terms."

Before I could argue, he hung up.

I stared at my phone.

What had I just done?

If I'd been hoping Liam Wolfe would pick a discreet place for our "business dinner," I was wrong.

The restaurant was one of those dimly lit, ultra-modern spots where every glass cost more than my electricity bill and the waiters looked like they'd stepped off a runway. The kind of place where half the patrons were investors, and the other half were there to be seen by investors.

I spotted him instantly sitting at a corner table like he owned it, suit perfectly cut, dark hair just tousled enough to look accidental. He was scrolling through his phone, a half-smile on his lips, as if even his texts were winning.

"You're late," he said when I approached.

"You picked a place with valet parking and a three-story waitlist. You're lucky I made it at all."

His smile widened slightly. "Still making excuses, Cross?"

I ignored him and sat down. "Let's just get this over with."

The waiter appeared as if summoned by our mutual disdain. Wine was poured, menus presented, and then Liam leaned back in his chair like a man settling into a negotiation he knew he'd win.

"So," he said, "tell me why I should pretend to be the man of your dreams."

I folded my arms. "It's not about dreams. It's about survival. My family reunion is this weekend. If I show up single, my mother will set me up with her dentist's nephew, and I'll spend the rest of the year dodging calls about double dates."

Liam's eyes glinted with amusement. "Tragic."

"And you," I continued, "are up for the biggest deal of your career. The board loves a stable, family-oriented image. You showing up with me on your arm says: here's a man who's settled, trustworthy, grounded."

He studied me for a moment, then set down his wine. "Okay. But you're leaving something out."

I raised an eyebrow. "Such as?"

"Why me?" His voice dropped just enough to make the question dangerous. "You could've found an actor. A friend. Someone you actually like."

The truth? Because Liam was the only person I knew who could match me move for move in a room full of sharks and because deep down, some part of me wanted to see if we could survive a weekend without killing each other.

"Because," I said finally, "I need someone convincing. And you're infuriatingly convincing."

A slow smile spread across his face. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Cross."

We hammered out the terms over overpriced pasta. No real intimacy outside of what was necessary to keep up appearances. No personal questions that strayed too far into private territory. A strict end date: Sunday night.

"And in exchange," he said, swirling his wine, "you'll play the doting wife at the investor dinner Friday. Smile when I need you to, laugh at my jokes, make me look like a man who's worth trusting with their money."

"Done."

When the check came, he didn't even glance at it before sliding his card across the table. "I'll pick you up Friday afternoon."

"Fine." I stood.

But as we stepped out into the cool night air, he stopped me with a hand on my arm. His touch was light, but it sent a jolt straight through me.

"One more thing," he said, voice low. "If we're doing this, we do it well. That means you look at me like I'm the only man in the room. You hold my hand like you don't want to let go. You kiss me like it's real."

I swallowed. "And you?"

He smiled, slow and deliberate. "I'll make you believe it's real."