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

Dinner had been quiet. Too quiet.

Mailah ate alone at the long, gleaming mahogany dining table beneath a chandelier that glittered like icicles. The soup had gone lukewarm before she touched it, the wine remained uncorked, and the roasted sea bass—perfectly crisped by the chef—tasted like cardboard. She didn't ask where Grayson was.

She didn't need to.

He was likely in his private study—an intimidating room hidden behind the wall of the second-floor library. A space she hadn't dared enter whenever he was home, though she passed it often enough to sense his presence within, thick as cologne and silence.

She chewed slowly, not tasting anything, her mind circling the events of that evening like a dog chasing its tail. The shower. The fog. The voice. The damn towel. 

Mailah groaned and dropped her fork, abandoning all pretense. She stood, muttered something about being done to the waiting housekeeper, and padded upstairs.

Mailah spent the rest of the evening trying to distract herself. She attempted to paint—but the brush strokes turned anxious, messy.

She tried reading one of Lailah's journals but found she couldn't focus on anything more complex than the date scrawled at the top of the page. Even tea didn't help. Eventually, she gave up, changed into a soft cotton nightdress and tied her hair up, and curled under the covers of the master bed with the drapes drawn tight against the moonlight.

That night, she tossed beneath her covers, too warm despite the open windows. Her skin still tingled from the memory of steam, of Grayson's voice just beyond the glass. "Nice towel."

She muttered into her pillow, "I should've thrown the shampoo bottle at him."

Eventually, sleep dragged her under.

And then the dream began.

She dreamed in flame.

Crimson licked at the edges of her vision. Smoke clawed its way down her throat. Shadows screamed in a language she didn't understand, and somewhere, in the roar of collapsing beams and shattering glass, a voice called her name.

Not Lailah. Not Mailah.

Just a cry. Raw and urgent.

And then—darkness.

She woke up screaming.

It was short and sharp, cut off halfway by her hand clamping over her mouth. She sat up, soaked in sweat, her nightdress clinging to her like a second skin.

Her heart thudded painfully.

She was drenched in sweat and tangled in sheets, her breath coming in shallow, panicked gasps. Her fingers gripped the edge of the pillow like it was an anchor. For a moment, she couldn't remember where she was. Then the moonlight caught the curve of the fireplace mantel, the delicate swish of the Ashford family crest.

Right. The estate.

Lailah's room. Her room now.

Her heart still pounded. The silence was oppressive, pressing down like velvet turned to lead. She needed air.

Mailah slid out of bed, wrapped herself in a robe, and padded barefoot into the hallway. Her steps were nearly soundless against the cool marble floors. 

A glass of water. That's all she needed. Maybe some fresh air. Anything to shake the leftover fear slithering up her spine.

Her bare feet made no sound against the hall tiles as she wandered toward the west wing, toward the only place that didn't feel like it belonged solely to Lailah.

The library.

The grand door loomed—dark wood, ornate trim. A sliver of golden light slipped through the crack.

Soft jazz played. A smoky saxophone and gentle piano.

She nudged the door open.

The room was aglow, bathed in amber from the sconces and the low-burning fireplace. Books towered around her, cocooning the space in wisdom and memory. A decanter tray glittered beside crystal tumblers.

Grayson sat near the fire. One arm draped along the side of a velvet armchair, a half-full glass in his hand. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, revealing strong forearms and faint ink along one wrist she hadn't noticed before.

He didn't look at her.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asked after a moment, voice smooth, low.

His eyes were sharper than the rest of him—the kind of gaze that sliced straight through shadows.

She lingered at the threshold. "Neither could you."

He gestured toward the open decanter. "This house has a way of keeping people awake."

She stepped inside, arms wrapped around herself. "Maybe it's haunted."

"Everything is, if you live in it long enough."

Mailah managed a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. Her robe whispered as she crossed the room and sank into the armchair opposite his.

"I didn't mean to intrude."

"You're not."

The crackle of the fire filled the silence between them. Grayson studied her for a moment, then offered his glass.

"Here. You look like you could use this more than I do."

She hesitated. Then took it, fingers brushing his.

The liquid burned pleasantly. Warmth spread through her chest, calming her tremble. She hadn't noticed it until it began to fade.

He didn't press. Didn't ask about the nightmare still echoing in her bones. He just watched her.

But when she lowered the glass, her voice trembled around the edges. "Have you ever felt like… like you're not who people think you are?"

Grayson's gaze sharpened. He said nothing.

She laughed softly, awkward. 

"I mean," she backpedaled, "not in a bad way. Just… like you're wearing someone else's life and hoping no one looks too closely."

Grayson leaned back, his long, strong legs stretched with one ankle over his knee. His eyes softened—not quite pity, not quite understanding.

"We all are," he murmured. "That's the part we hide best."

Her throat tightened.

She looked away, her gaze falling to the crystal glass trembling in her grip like a fragile confession. "Sometimes I think the mask is easier to bear than the truth beneath it. But then I wonder..." Her voice caught, raw and vulnerable. "If there's anything underneath worth discovering."

"You keep wearing it," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to caress her very soul. "Or you let it fall and and find out who stays when it does."

The words struck her like a bell tolling in her chest.

The silence stretched taut as a violin string, heavy with unspoken truths and dangerous possibilities. Then, without conscious thought, she set her glass down with shaking fingers, the soft clink against marble unnaturally loud in the hushed intimacy of the moment.

She leaned forward, drawn by some gravitational force she couldn't name or resist.

Grayson mirrored the movement with predatory grace, his storm-blue eyes never leaving her face, reading every flicker of emotion like he was memorizing a sacred text.

His fingers brushed hers—intentional, unhurried. They curled around her hand with the kind of warmth that spoke of knowing and wanting. Her breath caught.

"Lailah," he whispered—except it wasn't quite a name. It was a secret, a memory, a plea.

She exhaled shakily, the sound somewhere between a sigh and a surrender. His thumb traced slow, maddening circles over her knuckles, each caress sending liquid fire racing through her veins until she felt like she might combust from the inside out.

Then, ever so gently, his other hand rose. A damp strand of her hair had fallen from its tie. He tucked it behind her ear with an exhale soft enough to stir her lashes.

His touch lingered, knuckles grazing her cheek.

"You're trembling," he observed, his voice rough with something that sounded dangerously like hunger.

"So are you," she whispered back, and it was true—she could feel the fine tremor in his fingers, the barely leashed control he was fighting to maintain.

Their faces were close now. Impossibly, devastatingly close. She could count the silver flecks in his blue eyes, could see the way his pupils had dilated until they were dark pools of want. She could feel the warmth radiating from his skin, could taste the whiskey and wood smoke and something uniquely him on the air between them.

Her lips parted involuntarily, and she watched his gaze drop to her mouth with predatory focus.

Time seemed to slow, each heartbeat an eternity of anticipation. The world beyond this moment ceased to exist—there was no estate, no deception, no borrowed life. There was only this: the magnetic pull between them, the way he was looking at her.

She didn't know who moved first. Maybe it didn't matter.

Their mouths hovered—barely a breath away.

His breath ghosted across her lips, warm and intoxicating. Another inch, maybe less, and she would finally know what it felt like to be kissed by a man who looked at her like she was worth destroying the world for.

But just before their lips could meet—

Grayson's phone vibrated against the wooden side table.

He cursed under his breath and turned to silence it, but the moment had already slipped away.

Mailah sat back abruptly, breath caught in her throat.

Grayson stared at the screen for a moment, then set the phone face down.

Silence hung like a held breath.

"I should go," Mailah said, rising to her feet, smoothing her robe.

Grayson stood too, watching her but making no move to stop her.

She walked toward the door, her footsteps quiet.

But just as she reached the threshold, his voice stopped her.

"You smell like my soap," he said offhandedly, gaze locked on the fire.

Her breath caught.

"Try not to make that a habit," he added, voice low. "Or do."

She froze.

Heat flared instantly in her cheeks. She turned slowly, heart pounding.

Grayson's expression was unreadable, half in shadow, but his eyes held her like gravity.

Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

"You should lock your door tonight."

She blinked. "Why?"

He looked at her then, eyes sharp and unreadable.

"Because if you don't, I might forget how much control I'm supposed to have", he said, his tone smooth, as if he hadn't just wrecked her ability to breathe.

She left before her knees gave out.