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

Mailah spent the next few days in relative peace—if peace meant pretending to be your dead twin sister while navigating a labyrinth of social expectations, hushed staff glances, and closets that weren't entirely hers. With Grayson gone on his business trip to Singapore, the estate felt quieter, airier, less charged. She told herself she liked it that way.

 She did her best to play her role—to be Lailah Ashford without drawing more attention than necessary.

She made a phone call to Emma, her sister's longtime assistant, who thankfully seemed to accept her slightly distant tone as nothing more than post-gala fatigue.

"Emma, I need you to find someone who can handle the ongoing projects for the committees," she said, her voice carefully even.

"Especially the coral reef foundation. I believe someone mentioned it at the gala. And I need someone else to handle the aerial yoga charity event. Preferably someone who has done event organizing before."

Emma didn't question her sudden desire to delegate everything. "Of course. I'll pull up a list of candidates and get back to you by the end of the day."

"Perfect," Mailah said, forcing a soft, Lailah-esque sigh. "I'm just... trying to take a break from it all for a while. You understand."

Emma paused, then responded with a tone of quiet approval.

"Honestly, it might do you good. You've been stretched too thin these past months."

That settled that. Mailah ended the call with a quiet sense of relief.

With the social responsibilities temporarily passed to someone else, she decided to focus on something simple, something grounding.

Painting. A hobby she and Lailah had shared in adolescence—before everything got complicated.

 She remembered both of them dabbling in it when they were younger, fingers stained with pastels and giggles echoing in the attic. Surely Lailah wouldn't object to her picking that back up.

She drove to town one bright morning and purchased supplies: stretched canvases, sable brushes, a palette of acrylics, and a collapsible easel. The estate had dozens of unused rooms, but one, tucked at the east wing and filled with afternoon sun, called to her.

The room had a high, vaulted ceiling and a wide, arched window overlooking the gardens. Sunlight streamed in and pooled across honey-colored floorboards. Pale blue wallpaper peeled slightly at the corners, giving it the romantic decay of an old French studio. The scent of lavender drifted from the gardens below.

She set up her easel beside the window and placed a small carved table nearby for her supplies. A vintage chaise lounge, covered in cream linen, became her reading nook. She laid a stack of empty journals on the side table, though her eyes kept returning to the single, weathered one she'd brought from Lailah's drawer.

She had found it while rearranging scarves in one of the mirrored dressers. A slight shift in the wood revealed a false panel. Her breath caught. Inside was a small box, simple and undecorated, but locked. The key was cleverly hidden underneath a drawer lining.

The lock clicked open with a sigh.

Inside: a bundle of old photographs, a tarnished locket, and a thick envelope labeled in soft cursive: "For Mailah."

She stared at it for a long moment, her hands trembling. The ink was unmistakably Lailah's. Her name. Her sister's writing.

She unfolded the letter inside, eyes blurring over the first lines.

If you find this, it means you're here. You made it. And somehow, I knew you would.

You have my permission to read my journals. All of them. Especially the ones from high school. You'll laugh. I promise.

She smiled through the tightness in her throat, tucked the letter gently back, and chose the first journal from the bundle. It was purple, scuffed at the corners, with a faded sticker of a butterfly on the cover. She curled onto the chaise, flipped it open, and was immediately transported to a version of her sister who still thought the world revolved around boy bands, AP calculus, and whether or not she would ever kiss Blake Wilson at the Sadie Hawkins dance.

It became her routine: mornings for painting, afternoons for reading the journals, evenings spent walking the garden trails until moonrise. For the first time since she stepped foot into her sister's life, Mailah didn't feel like she was lying. She felt like she was listening.

But peace, like all things in this house, was short-lived.

By the end of the week, as she stepped into the shower in her bedroom, the water sputtered and died mid-rinse. She blinked, shampoo bubbling in her hair.

"Of course," she muttered.

Wrapped in a towel and dripping suds, she went in search of another bathroom. The east hall had several rooms she hadn't explored. She found one with a cracked door leading to a handsome den, dark wood paneling and old books giving it a masculine air. Adjacent to the den was a bathroom—sleek, minimal, marble-tiled, and thankfully, operational.

As she stepped into the bathroom, she noticed another door—one set into the wall opposite the vanity. Curious, she tried the handle, but it was locked tight. She pressed her ear against it, but no sound came from the other side. It seemed like no one was inside, and she assumed it led to another guest room or perhaps even Grayson's private chambers.

She paused. The scent hit her next: expensive shaving cream and something distinctly Grayson. There was a razor on the counter. A monogrammed towel. A bottle of cologne she'd seen him use.

She hesitated, then shrugged.

He wasn't due back for at least another day.

She stepped into the shower, letting the hot water massage away the remnants of cold, now half-rinsed shampoo. Her muscles relaxed. She hummed to herself. Maybe she'd make tea and read more of Lailah's high school poetry this afternoon. Maybe she'd start painting the orchard out back.

Maybe, just maybe, she could finally breathe. The water pressure here was perfect. Steam rose like fog on a moor, and for a moment, she let herself relax beneath the hot cascade.

Until she heard a key turn in the lock. The bathroom door clicked.

Mailah froze. The shower glass was fogged, but not enough to hide her completely. She pressed back against the tiled wall, heart thundering in her chest.

Footsteps. Two of them. Measured. Male.

Then a male voice, smooth and unmistakably amused: "You know this is my bathroom, right?"

Her eyes widened.

Oh no.

She yanked the fogged glass door halfway open, keeping her body hidden. "You're back early."

Grayson stood in the doorway, one eyebrow raised, his tie loosened, jacket slung over one shoulder. His eyes flicked to her form behind the foggy glass, then to the steam curling around the tiles.

"Surprise."

"You're not supposed to be home yet!"

"You're not supposed to be in my bathroom."

She clutched the towel she'd pulled from somewhere, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity. "I was just… the water in my wing stopped working."

He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed now. "So you broke into mine?"

"Technically, the door was unlocked."

"Technically," he echoed, lips twitching. "You do realize you're showering in a room that shares a wall with mine?"

Mailah glanced at the other door that was locked when she entered the bathroom.

"I'll be out in two minutes," she said, already fumbling for the knobs.

Grayson tilted his head. "Don't rush. You seem... comfortable."

She shot him a glare through the foggy glass. "You are not staying here while I'm in the shower."

He pushed off the doorframe and walked casually to the sink, picking up the shaving cream.

"Relax. I'll just shave."

"What?!"

"We're married, aren't we?" he added smoothly, applying cream to his jaw. "Surely we can share a bathroom."

Mailah turned off the water and snatched the towel, wrapping it tightly around herself. Her wet hair clung to her back as she cracked the glass open and stepped out.

Grayson caught her reflection in the mirror. His eyes paused for a fraction of a second, gaze flicking down, then back to meet hers.

Cool. Distant. Infuriatingly unreadable.

"Enjoy your shave," she muttered, chin raised as she marched barefoot across the floor.

He leaned slightly, blocking the door with one arm. "Running away, Mrs. Ashford?"

"Just relocating. I'm sure you want your territory back."

He stepped aside just enough. "Pity. I was rather enjoying the view."

Her heart stuttered.

She stopped halfway out, turned. "That's not fair."

"No," he said, voice low, "but it was honest."

Their eyes met in the mirror again, the space between them vibrating with unsaid things. She hated the way her pulse reacted to him. Hated the heat that crawled up her neck.

She walked out without another word.

But as she closed the door behind her, she heard it:

A deep chuckle.

And then, very softly:

"Nice towel."

She glanced down at the towel she'd absently grabbed—the one she had wrapped herself in like a makeshift barrier of fluffy protection. It smelled faintly of Grayson. That woodsy, expensive, maddening scent that clung to her like static.

Her eyes widened as she spotted the monogram on the edge. A crisp G.A. embroidered in silver thread.

"Oh no."

Her entire face went red. Not pink—crimson. Like she'd been dunked in a bucket of beet juice.

With a strangled gasp, she turned and sprinted back toward the master's bedroom like a thousand ghouls were after her.

Behind her, the sound of a low chuckle echoed faintly through the hall.