Becoming Lailah: Married to my Twin Sister's Billionaire Husband

Mailah stared after Grayson, her chest tight with something she couldn't name, his last words echoing in her ears like a promise wrapped in velvet and danger.

"Ask me again tomorrow."

Then he was gone, swallowed by the crowd and candlelight, leaving her standing on the balcony with nothing but the cool night air and the phantom warmth of his breath against her skin.

She lingered there longer than necessary, watching the city lights twinkle below like fallen stars. The sounds of the gala drifted back through the French doors—crystalline laughter, the gentle percussion of champagne flutes, and that endless waltz that seemed to follow the rhythm of her rapidly beating heart. Just a few more hours of pretending, she told herself, smoothing her hands over the silk of her gown. You can do this.

But as she stepped back into the ballroom, her heels clicking a nervous staccato against the polished marble, fate decided to test her resolve with surgical precision.

"Darling," a voice purred behind her, rich with honeyed venom and dripping with theatrical delight. "There you are."

Mailah's spine stiffened. She turned slowly, like a deer sensing predators in the underbrush.

Vanessa. Again. But this time, she'd brought reinforcements.

Three other women flanked her like designer-clad sentinels, all cut from the same expensive cloth: tall, coiffed to architectural perfection, and lacquered in enough money to fund a small country.

Socialites, clearly—the kind who wore their maiden names like battle standards and their jewelry like spoils of war. Their eyes lit up when they spotted Mailah, some with recognition, others with the gleeful anticipation of sharks scenting blood in crystal-clear water.

"We were just saying how absolutely radiant you look tonight," Vanessa said sweetly, looping her arm through Mailah's with the casual intimacy of old confidantes. Her grip was silk over steel. "You've been so... reclusive lately."

Mailah summoned her most diplomatic smile, the one she'd practiced in mirrors for weeks. "It's been a quiet season."

"Oh, but we've missed your spark terribly," said one of the women, a redhead with lips painted the color of fresh blood. Her pout was rehearsed to perfection. "You used to absolutely electrify these gatherings."

"And now you're all mystery and old Hollywood glamour," chimed another, a brunette whose diamonds caught the light like captured lightning. "Very Grace Kelly meets Hitchcock thriller."

"Still wearing blue, I see," Vanessa added, her gaze trailing over Mailah's gown with the thoroughness of an appraiser. "That color was always your signature."

Mailah nodded carefully, feeling like she was navigating a minefield in Louboutins. "Some things never change."

"Except your French accent," the redhead laughed, a sound like wind chimes in a hurricane. "Remember that charity auction in Lyon? You had the entire room eating out of your palm with that delicious Parisian lilt."

"Oui," Mailah said faintly, her throat suddenly dry as desert sand. She prayed to whatever gods protected impostors that no one would ask her to elaborate.

"We've all evolved a bit over the years," Vanessa continued, her voice turning saccharine enough to rot teeth. "But you—you're practically a ghost these days. We never see you at the country club anymore. Not even for your precious little book circle."

"I've had other priorities," Mailah managed, keeping her tone as light as champagne bubbles.

"Like vanishing from the coral reef foundation committee entirely?" The brunette's eyebrows arched with practiced surprise. "You were the one who spearheaded that whole restoration project. We were absolutely stunned when you just... evaporated."

Mailah felt her carefully constructed smile beginning to crack like expensive porcelain. Her palms grew damp inside her evening gloves.

Vanessa leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspirative whisper that somehow felt more dangerous than a shout. "You've always been so talented at reinvention, darling. But there's such a fine line between mysteriously intriguing and downright rude, don't you think?"

Mailah opened her mouth, scrambling for any response that wouldn't sound like the desperate flailing it was, but her mind had gone completely, catastrophically blank. The weight of their collective scrutiny pressed down on her like deep ocean water, threatening to crush her carefully maintained facade.

Just then, like cavalry appearing over a hill in some old Western, Grayson materialized at the edge of their circle. His presence was immediate and absolute—the kind that made conversations pause mid-sentence and made grown women check their lipstick reflexively.

He looked at Mailah first, those storm-blue eyes reading her face like a weather forecast, then turned his attention to the pack of socialites with the same cool precision he probably used to dismantle competitors in boardrooms.

"Vanessa," he said, his voice carrying just enough frost to make her straighten unconsciously. "You're not boring my wife with nostalgia, are you?"

"Just catching up on old times," Vanessa replied, flashing a smile so brittle it could shatter.

"Mm." His expression remained perfectly unreadable, like marble carved by a master sculptor. "Strange. From here, it sounded more like a police interrogation. The kind where someone gets grilled for sport."

Vanessa blinked rapidly, her composure flickering. "Grayson, I hardly think—"

"Ladies," he interrupted, his voice smooth as single-malt whiskey over ice, "if you're done circling, I'll be taking my wife now."

He didn't wait for permission or protests. His hand settled at the small of Mailah's back, warm and possessive and utterly commanding, guiding her away from the circle of vultures with the effortless authority of a man accustomed to getting exactly what he wanted.

She followed, dazed and grateful, feeling like she'd been rescued from drowning.

To her surprise, Grayson didn't leave her side again. For the rest of the evening, he remained anchored to her side like a shadow made of expensive cologne and barely leashed power. They moved through the gala as a unit, navigating conversations with diplomats who spoke in careful euphemisms, board members who measured words like gold bullion, and media executives who smiled with too many teeth.

Grayson said little, but he commanded every space they entered with the quiet confidence of a king surveying his kingdom. His hand never left her back—sometimes resting at her waist, sometimes brushing her shoulder, always there like a silent shield against further interrogations. The gesture felt protective and possessive in equal measure, sending little electric currents through her nervous system every time he moved.

They lingered at the gala far longer than she'd expected, dancing twice more—once to a jazz standard that made her feel like she was starring in a 1940s film noir, and once to something slow and sultry that left her breathless and slightly dizzy. Not once did he drift away to network or take mysterious phone calls.

When they finally slid into the back of his town car sometime after midnight, Mailah exhaled like she'd been holding her breath for hours.

The car's interior was a cocoon of buttery leather and hushed luxury, the partition raised to give them privacy from the driver. City lights flickered past the tinted windows like a light show designed specifically for insomniacs and lovers. Mailah clutched her beaded evening purse in her lap, fingers fidgeting with the antique clasp.

"Thank you," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

Grayson didn't look at her, his profile sharp and beautiful in the shifting light. "For what?"

"For what you did back there. With Vanessa and her firing squad."

A slight shrug, elegant and dismissive. "They were boring me."

"Still. You didn't have to rescue me."

"You looked like you were about to throw champagne in someone's face." His mouth quirked almost imperceptibly. "I was curious how far you'd take it."

She huffed a small laugh despite herself.

"And you know very well those women will keep digging for whatever they think they've found."

"So you saved me for your own convenience."

"Possibly."

The single word hung between them like a challenge. She turned toward him, studying the aristocratic line of his nose, the way the streetlights played across his cheekbones like a photographer's dream. The darkness softened his usually harsh edges, made him look almost... approachable. Almost human.

"You never left my side tonight," she observed, her voice carrying a note of wonder.

"Well, how could I?"

His gaze found hers in the dim light, steady and unreadable as always, but there was something else there—something that made her pulse quicken and her breath catch in her throat. The car hit a red light, and for a suspended moment they existed in their own private universe, wrapped in expensive leather and unspoken possibilities.

Then Grayson reached out and brushed a loose strand of hair from her cheek, his fingers moving with deliberate slowness. The touch was gentle, almost reverent, completely at odds with his usual cold precision.

She leaned into the caress without thinking, like a flower turning toward sunlight.

His thumb traced the line of her jaw, lingered at the corner of her mouth for a heartbeat too long, and she felt herself drowning in the storm-blue depths of his eyes.

"Careful," he murmured, his voice rough with something that might have been warning or invitation.

"Of what?" she breathed.

 He didn't respond.

His gaze sent a thrill down her spine that she tried desperately to ignore.

Then the light changed. The car rolled forward, breaking the spell.

They drove the rest of the way in charged silence, the space between them humming with electricity and unfinished conversations.

When they finally pulled through the foyer, the house loomed ahead like something from a Gothic novel, all soaring lines and windows glowing like watchful eyes. Mailah expected him to walk her to the door, maybe steal another of those moments that left her feeling off-balance and slightly breathless.

Instead, Grayson remained seated as she gathered her purse and wrap.

"I'm heading straight to the airport," he said abruptly, his tone suddenly businesslike.

Mailah blinked, her hand freezing on the door handle. "Airport?"

"Emergency business trip to Singapore. Crisis management. I won't be back for several days."

Her heart performed an unwelcome somersault, followed immediately by a crash landing. "Oh. Right. Of course. Business."

He turned to face her one final time, and for just a moment, she thought she saw something flicker in his expression—regret, maybe, or frustration. But it was gone so quickly she might have imagined it.

"You'll manage without me."

She nodded too quickly, too brightly. "Safe travels."

A pause stretched between them, heavy with things neither of them would say.

"Goodnight, Lailah."

Her sister's name on his lips sounded different somehow. Intimate. Like a secret.

And then he was gone, the car door closing with expensive finality.

She stood there for a long moment after the taillights disappeared down the winding drive, her hands clenched on her sides, her heart doing complicated gymnastics routines in her chest. She had no right to feel disappointed. No right to wish he'd kissed her goodnight, or invited her to Singapore, or done any of the dozen romantic things her traitor brain kept suggesting.

This was Lailah's husband. Lailah's life. Lailah's fairy tale.

Not hers.

Maybe it was better when he wasn't around, reading her silences like particularly interesting novels and making her forget who she was supposed to be.

She took a deep breath that tasted like night air and expensive regrets. Her heels echoed against the cobblestones as she walked toward the front door, each step a small act of rebellion against the part of her that wanted to run after his car like some lovesick heroine in a bad romance novel.

Meanwhile, across the city, Grayson's car glided through streets that gleamed with recent rain.

"He's waiting, sir," his assistant murmured from the front seat.

Grayson nodded once, his jaw set in hard lines.

The driver pulled up beside a discreet side entrance to the hotel where the gala's VIP guests were staying. A man in a charcoal blazer stood under a streetlamp, shifting nervously from foot to foot like someone contemplating flight.

"Mr. Ashford would like a word," the assistant said, stepping out to address the man on the roadside directly.

He hesitated, glancing back toward the hotel's glowing entrance. "Now? It's past one in the morning."

The assistant's smile was polite and absolutely terrifying. "It won't take long."

The man looked at the car's tinted windows, seeing nothing but his own reflection staring back. Curiosity warred with self-preservation, and as it so often did, curiosity won.

He slid into the backseat.

Grayson was waiting like a spider in an expensive suit, perfectly composed, a tablet resting on his knee like a prop in some high-stakes negotiation. The door closed behind Luca with the soft finality of a tomb sealing.

"Mr. Ashford," Luca began cautiously.

"You recognized her tonight," Grayson said without preamble. Not a question. A statement delivered with the confidence of someone who collected facts like other people collected stamps.

Luca nodded slowly. "I... yes. I think I did."

"You think?"

"She insisted I was mistaken." Luca's voice gained strength. "But I'm not. Her name is Mailah. We worked together at Morrison & Associates. She's not your wife."

"She is Mrs. Ashford," Grayson replied with arctic precision. "That's all you need to understand."

Luca frowned, his instincts kicking into high gear. "Look, I'm not trying to cause problems. But if she's hiding something, if she's in some kind of trouble—"

"She isn't hiding," Grayson cut him off. "She's surviving."

The words were delivered so flatly, so clinically, that Luca felt a chill run down his spine.

"If you genuinely care about her well-being," Grayson continued, his voice never rising above conversational levels, "you'll forget this conversation or 'that' encounter ever happened."

"Are you threatening me?"

Grayson's smile was winter made manifest. "I don't make threats. I make promises."

He tapped the tablet once, and Luca caught a glimpse of what looked like financial records, photographs, and detailed personal information scrolling past.

"This conversation is over," Grayson said simply.

The door opened as if by magic.

Luca stepped out onto the rain-slicked sidewalk, his heart hammering against his ribs like a caged bird. He watched the car disappear into the night, its taillights like red eyes in the darkness.

Then, against every instinct screaming at him to leave well enough alone, he pulled out his phone.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard for a long moment before he typed out a message to the number he'd stored on his contacts for a long time:

"Be careful. He's not who you think he is."

He stared at the message for thirty seconds, his thumb hovering over the send button.

Finally, he pressed it.