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

The four words hung in the air like a death sentence, and Mailah realized that her carefully constructed new life might be about to come crashing down around her ears.

"Lailah? We need to talk."

She could hear him moving through the foyer, his footsteps confident and purposeful against the marble. Each step seemed to echo her racing heartbeat, and she found herself frozen in the dining room doorway like a deer caught in headlights. The expensive wine from dinner had done nothing to calm her nerves—if anything, it had made her more aware of how precarious her situation really was.

Think, Mailah. What could he possibly want to discuss? The committee meeting? The phone call? Or has he finally figured out that his wife isn't actually his wife?

She could see him now, silhouetted against the soft lighting of the hallway. Even in the dim light, he was devastatingly handsome—his dark hair slightly disheveled from the rain, his expensive suit jacket draped over one arm, his white shirt clinging slightly to his broad shoulders where the storm had caught him. He looked like something out of a romance novel, which would have been perfect if she weren't currently living in what felt more like a psychological thriller.

"There you are," he said, his voice carrying that familiar edge of controlled authority that made her stomach do uncomfortable gymnastics. His blue eyes found hers across the space, and she felt pinned like a butterfly to a board. "I hope you don't mind the interruption, but there's something we need to discuss."

The way he said "discuss" made it sound less like a conversation and more like an interrogation. Mailah's mouth went dry, and she found herself gripping the doorframe for support.

"Of course," she managed, proud that her voice came out relatively steady. "What about?"

Grayson moved closer, and she caught that intoxicating scent of cedar and rain and something uniquely masculine that seemed to follow him everywhere. In the soft lighting, his features looked carved from marble—all sharp angles and classical beauty that belonged in a museum rather than her suddenly very real life.

"Your performance today was quite impressive," he said, and the word 'performance' made her blood turn to ice water. "Patricia Chen called me twenty minutes ago, absolutely raving about your aerial yoga concept."

Oh god. He knows. He definitely knows.

"She did?" Mailah's voice came out as barely more than a whisper.

"Mmm." He stepped closer, close enough that she could see the darker flecks of blue in his irises, close enough that she could count the raindrops still clinging to his dark hair. "She was particularly enthusiastic about your 'visionary approach to philanthropy' and your 'revolutionary ideas about lifting spirits literally.'"

The way he quoted her words made them sound ridiculous, and Mailah felt heat flood her cheeks. She was caught. There was no way out of this.

"Grayson, I can explain—"

CRACK.

The sound of lightning striking somewhere terrifyingly close split the air like a gunshot, immediately followed by thunder so loud it seemed to shake the very foundations of the house. And then, as if the universe had decided to intervene in her moment of impending doom, every light in the house went out.

The darkness was absolute and immediate, swallowing them both like a hungry beast. Mailah's breath caught in her throat, and suddenly the conversation about aerial yoga seemed like the least of her problems.

She had always been afraid of the dark. Always. Even as an adult, even knowing it was irrational, complete darkness sent her into a panic that she couldn't control. It was a fear that went bone-deep, probably stemming from too many nights as a child spent hiding in closets and under beds, trying to escape the chaos of her adoptive family's dysfunction.

"The backup generator should kick in any moment," Grayson's voice came from somewhere close by, calm and reassuring in the oppressive blackness. "Don't worry."

But the seconds ticked by—five, ten, fifteen—and the darkness remained complete. Mailah could feel her breathing becoming shallow, her heart racing not from the interrupted conversation but from the primal fear clawing at her chest.

Without conscious thought, her hand shot out, seeking contact, seeking reassurance, seeking anything solid in the terrifying void. Her fingers found Grayson's hand, and she immediately interlaced their fingers in a specific pattern—thumb over thumb, pinky fingers crossed, a complicated weaving that she and Lailah had perfected as children.

It was their secret handshake, their comfort ritual, something they'd done whenever one of them was scared or upset. Mailah's body remembered it even when her mind was too panicked to think clearly.

The moment their hands connected in that familiar pattern, something shifted in the darkness. She felt Grayson go very still, felt his fingers tighten slightly around hers as if he recognized the gesture.

"Lailah," he said quietly, and there was something different in his voice. Softer. Almost... tender? "I'd forgotten you used to do that."

Used to do what? Mailah thought frantically, but she was too scared to analyze his words properly. The darkness was pressing in on her from all sides, and she found herself unconsciously beginning to hum—a soft, wordless melody that she and Lailah had created together during long, frightening nights in their childhood.

It was their lullaby, their secret song, something they'd hummed to each other when the world felt too big and scary and they only had each other for comfort. The melody came as naturally as breathing, rising from some deep place in her memory where twin-bond lived.

"Hmm-mm-mm, hmm-mm-hmm, hmm-mm-mm-mm-hmm..."

The soft humming seemed to calm her racing heart, and she felt some of the panic begin to recede. She wasn't alone in the dark. She wasn't helpless. She had survived worse than this.

"Jesus," Grayson breathed, and she felt him step closer until she could feel the warmth radiating from his body. "You haven't hummed that in... it must be years."

His free hand found her shoulder, steady and reassuring, and Mailah found herself leaning into the contact without conscious thought. In the darkness, with her defenses down and her fear genuine, she wasn't thinking about being Lailah or maintaining her cover. She was just being herself—scared, vulnerable, seeking comfort wherever she could find it.

"The dark," she whispered, her voice small and shaky. "I hate the dark."

"I know," he said, and there was something almost gentle in his voice. "I know you do."

She felt him shift, felt him moving closer until she could rest her forehead against his chest. Through his shirt, she could hear his heartbeat—steady and strong and reassuringly real. His arms came around her, not possessive or demanding, but protective. Comforting.

"Where the hell is that generator?" he muttered, but he made no move to leave her side to investigate.

Instead, she heard him pull out his phone, the screen providing a tiny circle of blue light in the oppressive darkness. He kept one arm around her while he made the call.

"Charles? It's Grayson. The power's out and the backup generator isn't working... Yes, I know about the storm... How long for emergency power?... Forty-five minutes? You've got to be kidding me."

Forty-five minutes. Forty-five minutes trapped in complete darkness with the man who was supposed to be her husband, the man who had been about to confront her about God only knew what, the man whose arms around her felt far too good for her peace of mind.

"Forty-five minutes," he repeated, hanging up the phone and plunging them back into darkness. "The storm knocked out the main power grid, and there's a problem with our generator's fuel line. They're working on it."

Mailah nodded against his chest, though he couldn't see the gesture. The humming had stopped, but she could still feel the echo of the melody in her throat, could still feel the strange sense of rightness that came from the familiar finger-weaving with his hand.

"Better?" he asked quietly.

"A little," she admitted. "Thank you for... for staying."

There was a pause, and she wondered what he was thinking. In the darkness, she couldn't read his expression, couldn't analyze his body language for clues about his mood or intentions.

"Did you think I'd leave you alone in this?" His voice held a note of something that might have been surprise, or maybe hurt.

The question hung between them, loaded with implications she wasn't sure how to navigate. What would Lailah have expected? Had their marriage been so cold, so distant, that she wouldn't have expected comfort from her own husband during a moment of vulnerability?

"I don't know," she said honestly. "We haven't exactly been... close lately."

Another pause, longer this time. She felt him shift slightly, his hand moving to stroke her hair in a gesture that seemed unconscious, automatic.

"No," he agreed quietly. "We haven't."

The simple acknowledgment hung in the air between them, and Mailah found herself wondering what had gone wrong in Lailah's marriage. From the outside, it had seemed perfect—wealthy, handsome husband, beautiful house, social status. But clearly there had been problems, distance, a coldness that had left both of them feeling like strangers.

"Grayson," she began, then stopped, not sure what she wanted to say.

"What?"

In the darkness, with his arms around her and her fear making her bold, she found herself asking the question that had been haunting her since she'd first seen their wedding photo.

"Do you ever wonder what would have happened if we'd married for love instead of... convenience?"

The words left her mouth before she could stop them, and she immediately tensed, waiting for his reaction. It was a dangerous question, one that revealed too much about her understanding of their relationship's foundation.

But instead of suspicion or anger, she felt him go very still against her. His hand in her hair stopped moving, and his breathing seemed to slow.

"At times," he said finally, so quietly she almost didn't hear him.

The confession hit her like a physical blow. At times He wondered sometimes what their marriage could have been if it had been built on something real instead of whatever arrangement had brought them together.

"Grayson—"

"Don't." His voice was sharp now, cutting through the darkness like a blade. "Don't say whatever you're about to say. Not in the dark. Not when we can't see each other properly."

She felt him start to pull away, felt the warmth and comfort beginning to disappear, and panic—different from her fear of the dark but equally intense—flared in her chest.

"Wait," she said, her hand tightening in that familiar finger-weaving pattern. "Please don't go."

He stopped, but she could feel the tension in his body, could feel him building his walls back up even as he held her.

"The conversation we were supposed to have," she said quickly, desperate to keep him from retreating completely. "What was it about?"

A long silence. Then: "It doesn't matter now."

"It does to me."

"Lailah—"

"Please. I want to know."

She heard him sigh, felt the sound vibrate through his chest where her head still rested.

"Patricia mentioned something interesting," he said finally. "She said you told them about the underwater yoga event. Described it in perfect detail—the mermaid instructor, the synchronized breathing, the children watching from above."

Mailah's blood went cold. "And?"

"And I found that fascinating, considering we never actually had an underwater yoga event. That was the backup plan we discussed but never implemented. The actual event was traditional poolside yoga with dolphin-themed decorations."

Oh. Oh no.

"You described an event that existed only in our planning notes," he continued, his voice dangerously quiet. "Notes that were in my private office. Notes that you couldn't possibly have seen unless you'd been going through my files."

The darkness suddenly felt suffocating for entirely different reasons. She had made a massive mistake, had invented an event that partially overlapped with something real, something only Grayson would know the truth about.

"I can explain—" she started.

"Can you?" There was something sharp in his voice now, something that cut through the gentleness of moments before. "Because I'm very curious to hear how my wife developed such a detailed memory of an event that never happened."

Before she could answer, before she could even begin to formulate a response that wouldn't completely blow her cover, the house was suddenly flooded with light as the backup generator finally roared to life.

The harsh brightness was blinding after the complete darkness, and Mailah found herself blinking rapidly, her eyes streaming from the sudden change. When her vision cleared, she found Grayson staring down at her with an expression she couldn't quite read—part confusion, part suspicion, and something else that might have been disappointment.

They were still close, his arms still around her, her hand still interlaced with his in that childhood pattern. But the moment of intimacy was broken, shattered by the return of light and the weight of his unanswered questions.

"Well," he said, stepping back and leaving her feeling suddenly cold and exposed. "That was illuminating."

The way he said it made it clear he wasn't talking about the lights.

Mailah opened her mouth to say something, anything, to explain or deflect or salvage the situation, but before she could speak, his phone rang. The sharp sound cut through the tension like a knife.

"Grayson Ashford," he answered, his voice immediately shifting back to business mode. His eyes never left her face as he listened to whoever was on the other end. "What do you mean, emergency? What kind of emergency?"

She watched his expression change, watched his attention shift completely away from her and toward whatever crisis was unfolding on the phone.

"I'll be there in twenty minutes," he said curtly, hanging up.

"Business?" she asked, though she was secretly relieved by the interruption.

"Something like that." He moved toward the stairs, then paused, looking back at her with that same unreadable expression. "We'll finish this conversation tomorrow, Lailah. And this time, I'd like the truth."

He disappeared up the stairs, leaving her standing alone in the bright lights of the foyer, her heart racing and her mind spinning with the implications of what had just happened.

She had bought herself time—maybe twelve hours before he demanded answers she couldn't give. But she had also revealed more about herself than she'd intended, had shown him glimpses of the real woman beneath Lailah's carefully constructed facade.

The question was: had those glimpses made him more suspicious, or more interested?

As she heard his footsteps overhead and the sound of drawers opening and closing as he packed for whatever emergency had called him away, Mailah realized that tomorrow was going to bring challenges she wasn't sure she was prepared for.

But for tonight, at least, she was safe.

The real question was: what was she going to do with the time she'd been given?