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

Grayson Ashford didn't yell. He didn't need to.

When you possessed the kind of power that could reshape entire industries with a single phone call, volume became irrelevant. Fury, however, was a different matter entirely. It radiated from him in waves so palpable that the mahogany conference table might as well have been made of thin ice, creaking under the weight of his displeasure.

He sat at the head of the table like a storm brewing in tailored charcoal, his six-thousand-dollar suit fitting him like liquid mercury. Every line of his posture spoke of controlled violence—jaw set in granite, shoulders squared with military precision, one perfectly manicured finger tapping a slow, deadly rhythm against the polished glass surface. The sound echoed through the boardroom like a funeral march, each tap counting down to someone's professional execution.

The floor-to-ceiling windows of the Ashford Corp tower framed the Manhattan skyline like a portrait of conquest, fifty stories of steel and ambition stretching toward a sky that seemed almost apologetic in its gray ordinariness. Inside the boardroom, though, the temperature had dropped at least ten degrees since Grayson had walked in thirty minutes ago, his silence more terrifying than any tantrum.

Twelve of the city's most powerful executives sat around that table, men and women who commanded billion-dollar portfolios and struck fear into the hearts of their competitors. Today, they looked like schoolchildren waiting for the principal's verdict.

"He fired her on her birthday," whispered someone two seats down from the head of the table.

The voice was barely audible, a breath of sound that should have been swallowed by the room's expensive acoustics. But in the cathedral-quiet boardroom, it might as well have been a gunshot.

Every head turned. Every breath held.

Grayson looked up slowly, his storm-blue eyes finding the source of the whisper with predatory precision. The woman—Ashford Corp's Chief Financial Officer, a Harvard MBA who'd survived three economic crashes and countless hostile takeovers—shut up mid-breath, her face draining of color like someone had pulled a plug.

The silence stretched taut as a piano wire.

Grayson turned his attention to his Chief Operations Officer, a man whose name was Grant and whose unfortunate job it was to deliver bad news to someone who considered obstacles to be personal insults.

"Explain to me again," Grayson said, his voice carrying the deceptive calm of deep ocean water just before a tsunami, "how our Southeast Asia branch director managed to leak dismissal footage to the press."

Grant, who had lost the ability to maintain eye contact approximately ten minutes into this meeting, cleared his throat like a man preparing to deliver his own eulogy. Sweat beaded at his receding hairline despite the arctic temperature of the room.

"It appears," he began, his voice cracking slightly, "that someone from our internal communications team uploaded the video to our internal content hub, thinking it was only viewable by upper management. The privacy settings were..." He swallowed hard. "Misconfigured."

"And instead," Grayson continued with the patience of a saint and the tone of a death sentence, "it landed on Buzzline's front page with the headline 'Cold as Ashford: CEO Fires Single Mother During Cake-Cutting Ceremony.'"

"Yes, sir." Grant's voice was barely a whisper now.

Grayson leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking ominously. "Was there actually a cake, Grant?"

Grant winced like he'd been physically struck. "Red velvet, sir. With... with happy birthday written in pink frosting. There were balloons, too. Silver ones."

"And streamers," added someone from the other end of the table before immediately looking like they wanted to crawl under the conference table and die.

Grayson's silence was so sharp it should have been trademarked. The kind of quiet that made grown men confess to crimes they hadn't committed just to fill the void.

He stood abruptly, his chair rolling back with expensive precision. Every person in that room straightened unconsciously, responding to the alpha energy that radiated from him like heat from a forge.

"Fix it," he said simply. "Get the severance tripled, not doubled. Offer her a full PR consultant package and a non-disclosure agreement she can't refuse. And for God's sake, get those balloons digitally removed from every photo circulating on social media."

"Of course, Mr. Ashford," Grant stammered, already pulling out his phone.

"I want this contained by end of business today. If I see one more news segment about birthday cakes and corporate heartlessness, I'll assume you've all decided you no longer need your current employment status."

Grayson walked out before Grant could finish nodding, his Italian leather shoes clicking against the marble floor with the rhythm of a countdown timer.

Back in his corner office—a testament to minimalist power with its floor-to-ceiling windows, contemporary art that cost more than most people's houses, and a desk that could double as a landing strip—Grayson loosened his tie and stared at the bank of television screens mounted on his wall.

Three different news networks were dissecting the video like forensic specialists examining evidence at a crime scene. On CNN, a host clutched a tissue while replaying the clip in slow motion, her voice thick with manufactured emotion.

"Look at her face," she whispered dramatically. "She thought it was a surprise party. It was a surprise, all right—the kind that destroys your faith in corporate humanity."

On Fox Business, a panel of talking heads debated whether this was indicative of a larger problem in American business culture. On MSNBC, they were running a segment called "The Ashford Effect: When Corporate Culture Goes Too Far."

Grayson poured himself a double shot of espresso from the Italian machine, downing it like medicine. The bitter burn did nothing to improve his mood.

When his PR team entered without knocking—a liberty only granted during full-scale crises—he didn't offer coffee. Or eye contact. Or basic human courtesy.

"Tell me what damage control looks like," he said without turning around from the windows.

Evelyn Morrison, his head of public relations and a woman who usually wore stress like an expensive perfume, smiled with the confidence of a war general who'd just figured out how to win an unwinnable battle. She was sharp-suited, silver-haired, and ruthless enough to make politicians weep with envy.

"We humanize you," she announced, setting down her tablet with the confidence of someone presenting the Holy Grail. "Big time. Soft lighting, charity events, maybe some carefully orchestrated interactions with children or small animals. We clean up your image, Mr. Ashford, and we do it fast."

Grayson turned from the window, his expression skeptical. "Small animals?"

"Puppies are poll-tested gold," confirmed Marcus, Evelyn's deputy, a man who looked like he'd been born wearing a bluetooth headset. "But we're thinking bigger picture here."

Evelyn pulled up a slideshow on the wall-mounted screen. "We already have media outlets lined up who want to do a lifestyle feature. Architectural Digest, Vanity Fair, even Vogue is interested. And the best way to humanize a powerful man is to show the world that a woman—specifically, a woman of taste and intelligence—chose to marry him."

Grayson stiffened, his espresso cup halfway to his lips.

"Your wife," Evelyn continued, clicking to the next slide with the enthusiasm of someone who'd just solved world hunger. "She's already a bit of a mystery, which actually works in our favor. You've kept your private life private, and now we spin that. Make it about love conquering all. Stability. The soft power of a woman who can tame the beast."

The screen filled with a candid photograph of Mailah—though the world knew her as Lailah—from the last charity gala they'd attended. She was captured mid-laugh, her head tilted back, emerald dress catching the light like liquid starlight. But Grayson could see what the cameras missed: the way her fingers clutched her champagne glass like a lifeline, the slight stiffness in her shoulders that spoke of someone performing rather than living.

He stared at the image, something twisting uncomfortably in his chest.

"No," he said quietly.

Evelyn blinked, her carefully constructed confidence faltering. "Excuse me?"

"She's not..." He paused, choosing his words with the precision of a surgeon. "She's not equipped for that level of scrutiny."

"Why not?" Luke leaned forward eagerly. "She's beautiful, elegant, mysterious. The press would eat it up."

Because she isn't Lailah. Because she's living a lie that could crumble under the weight of a single probing interview. Because I've watched her practice walking in Lailah's shoes and seen the panic in her eyes when someone mentions a memory she doesn't share.

"She's... overwhelmed," he said instead, the word tasting like chalk in his mouth. "It's been a difficult few months. Health issues."

Evelyn clasped her hands over her tablet, her expression shifting to that of a therapist dealing with a difficult patient. "With all due respect, sir, that ship sailed the moment you fired a single mother next to a balloon arch shaped like a birthday cake. This is our only viable strategy. We launch a comprehensive domestic harmony campaign. Joint interviews, coordinated public appearances, maybe even a Vogue home feature. The works."

Grayson set down his espresso cup with carefully controlled force. For a man known throughout the business world for his decisive ruthlessness, he had never felt so thoroughly, helplessly cornered.

Mailah was in the solarium attempting to resurrect a dying basil plant when Grayson found her two hours later.

The solarium was her second favorite room in the estate—a glass-walled sanctuary filled with afternoon light and enough plants to qualify as an indoor jungle. It was the other place where she felt like she could breathe, where the weight of her deception seemed slightly less crushing. Today, she was wearing one of Lailah's casual outfits: designer jeans that fit like they'd been sewn directly onto her body and a cashmere sweater that probably cost more than her old monthly rent.

She looked up from the soil she'd been optimistically fertilizing, her hands dirt-stained despite the expensive gardening gloves. "You're home early."

There was surprise in her voice, tinged with something that might have been hope. It made Grayson's chest tighten in ways he preferred not to analyze.

He stood in the doorway, hands buried deep in his pockets, watching her with the same intensity he usually reserved for hostile takeovers. She had a smudge of potting soil on her cheek and her hair was escaping from its careful styling, making her look younger, more vulnerable, more real than the polished society wife she pretended to be in public.

"We have a situation," he said finally.

She straightened up, instinctively brushing her hands on the designer apron that probably cost more than most people's weekly grocery budget. "Did I mess something up? Say the wrong thing to someone?"

The question came out in a rush, tinged with the kind of panic that spoke of someone constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"No." He paused, something flickering across his expression. "This one's mine."

She blinked, clearly processing this information like it was delivered in a foreign language. "You messed up?"

He arched a brow.

"I just..." She caught herself, but not before a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "I didn't think that was in your operating system."

He gave a humorless huff that might have been laughter in someone with a more developed sense of humor. "Apparently, I'm public enemy number one this week. I fired someone, it was recorded, and the footage made international news. My PR team is in full panic mode."

"Oh." She set down her gardening tools, giving him her full attention. "That sounds... bad."

"And they have a plan to fix it." His eyes found hers, holding them with an intensity that made her pulse quicken. "It involves you."

Mailah felt the blood drain from her face. "Me?"

"They want to humanize me. Show the world my softer side. Put me next to something warm and genuine and..." He paused, his jaw tightening. "Preferably a wife."

She gave a nervous laugh that sounded more like a small animal in distress. "Oh. Right. That wife."

"They want galas, photoshoots, lifestyle interviews. Coordinated public appearances. They mentioned Vogue specifically."

"Vogue?" Her voice cracked on the word.

He nodded grimly. "And puppies, apparently. Someone mentioned puppies."

She stared at him, panic visibly rising like floodwater behind her eyes. The careful composure she'd been building for months began to crumble in real time.

"Grayson, I... I can't do that. I don't know what I'm doing! Someone's going to ask me something I can't answer, or notice something wrong, or realize that I'm not—"

She caught herself mid-sentence and looked away, but not before he saw the terror in her expression.

Grayson tilted his head slightly, studying her with the focus of a scientist examining a particularly interesting specimen. "Realize what?"

The question hung in the air between them like a loaded gun.

For a moment, she looked like she might confess everything—the whole impossible, beautiful, devastating truth. But then she straightened her shoulders, forced her expression back into careful neutrality, and smiled with what might have been genuine confidence if you didn't know to look for the hairline cracks.

"Sure," she said, her voice only slightly strained. "I'll do it."

Grayson blinked. He had expected her to refuse. Had hoped she would refuse. Had been prepared to use her inevitable rejection as an excuse to shut down Evelyn's entire campaign. But now, looking at her determined expression and the way she was unconsciously fidgeting with her wedding ring—Lailah's wedding ring—he realized he had no excuse left.

No way out.

He gave a tight nod, the movement sharp and final. "Good. I'll have Evelyn brief you on the details."

She tried to sound confident, but he could hear the slight tremor underneath. "Don't worry about me. I can handle it."

The lie was so obvious it was almost endearing.

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he turned to leave, his footsteps echoing against the glass walls of the solarium. But not before letting out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.