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

Grayson Ashford had built his empire on reading people—their tells, their weaknesses, their deepest desires. In boardrooms across three continents, he could spot a lie from across a mahogany table, could identify desperation masquerading as confidence with surgical precision. It was a skill that had made him billions and had kept him alive in a world where sharks wore thousand-dollar suits and smiled while they circled for the kill.

So when the woman claiming to be his wife had walked through his dining room days ago, he'd known within the first thirty seconds that she wasn't Lailah.

The real question hadn't been who she was—that particular mystery had taken him exactly forty-eight hours and one well-placed phone call to solve. The question that had been keeping him awake at night, the puzzle that had him canceling meetings just to watch her stumble through his house like a beautiful, lost bird, was far more intriguing: why was she here?

And more importantly, why was he letting her stay?

Standing in his private office back in his estate now, nearly two hours after leaving Mailah in the foyer looking like a deer caught in headlights, Grayson loosened his tie and tried to push away the images that were still burned into his mind. The emergency had been real enough—Detective Martinez calling to inform him that someone had found Lailah's grave and that they needed immediate confirmation of identity.

He'd made the drive to the city morgue in a record fifteen minutes, his Aston Martin eating up the miles while his mind raced with possibilities. He'd needed to see it himself, needed to confirm with his own eyes that the woman buried in that modest cemetery plot was indeed his wife.

The fluorescent lights of the morgue had been harsh and unforgiving as Detective Martinez had pulled back the sheet, revealing features that were unmistakably Lailah's. Even after months in the ground, even with the ravages of her illness evident in the hollow cheeks and wasted frame, she was still beautiful in that ethereal way that had made her perfect for their arrangement.

"Natural causes," the coroner had confirmed. "Advanced cancer, looks like she'd been sick for a while. Probably knew she was dying."

Grayson had stood there in that sterile room, staring at the face of the woman he'd married three years ago, and felt... nothing. No grief, no loss, no sense of finality. Just the cold satisfaction of a puzzle piece clicking into place.

"I want her moved," he'd told Detective Martinez afterward, as they'd stood in the parking lot discussing the logistics. "Her parents are buried at Rosewood Cemetery upstate. She should be with them."

"That'll take some paperwork—"

"I'll handle the paperwork. And the costs." Grayson had already been reaching for his phone, scrolling through contacts for the right people to expedite the process. "How soon can it be done?"

"Give me seventy-two hours."

Now, back in the sanctuary of his office, Grayson moved to the window that overlooked the estate's gardens, where he could see a single light glowing in the master's bedroom. She was probably there, he mused, curled up on the couch, reading another classic novel and trying to piece together the life she was attempting to steal.

Grayson already knew who had been maintaining that grave. The same woman who was currently in his library, probably biting her lower lip as she worried about tomorrow's promised confrontation. The same woman who had been carrying her twin sister's death like a stone in her chest for months.

The drive back from the city had given him time to think, time to process what seeing Lailah's body had meant for his current situation. It made everything more real, more final. There was no going back now, no pretending this was some elaborate misunderstanding.

Three days. Three days until Lailah's remains would be moved to their final resting place, and the last physical evidence of her death would be handled properly. Three days to decide what he was going to do with Mailah—yes, he even knew her real name—and the elaborate deception she'd constructed around his life.

He should have been furious. By all rights, he should have had her arrested for fraud, for identity theft, for trespassing in his home and his bed. Instead, he found himself fascinated by her audacity, charmed by her clumsy attempts at sophistication, and aroused by the genuine vulnerability she showed when she thought no one was watching.

The finger-weaving. Christ, he'd almost lost his composure when she'd done that. It was such an intimate gesture, something so deeply personal that only Lailah should have known it. When Mailah's fingers had found his in that complex pattern, when she'd begun humming that wordless lullaby, he'd felt something crack open in his chest that he'd thought was permanently sealed.

Because he had known those gestures. From Lailah who hadn't sought comfort from him much, had very rarely shown him anything approaching that kind of vulnerability. 

He'd hired the best private investigators money could buy six months into his sham of a marriage, and those investigators had been thorough enough to uncover the tragic story of twin sisters separated before they were even teens.

He knew about the adoption agencies, the different families, the brief reunion before Lailah's death. He knew that Mailah had worked three jobs to put herself through community college, that she'd lived in a studio apartment barely bigger than his walk-in closet, that she'd spent years taking care of everyone but herself.

What he hadn't expected was how those small, intimate gestures from her childhood would affect him. How the sight of her genuine fear in the darkness would make him want to pull her closer instead of pushing her away. How her unconscious humming would remind him of everything he'd never had in his cold, calculated world.

His phone buzzed with a text message, interrupting his thoughts. Emma—yes, he was constantly in contact with her assistant, confirming tomorrow's charity gala.

All arrangements confirmed for tomorrow evening. The underwater theme preparations are complete. Should I remind Mrs. Ashford of the 6 PM start time?

Ah, the gala. The event that had provided him with the perfect opportunity to test his not-wife's knowledge and watch her scramble to cover her mistakes.

It should have been the moment he confronted her, should have been the end of whatever game they'd been playing. At that moment, he told her about her committee meeting. Instead, when she'd looked up at him with those wide, terrified eyes in the darkness, when she'd asked him about love and convenience, he'd felt something shift inside him that had nothing to do with strategy or control.

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

The question had hit him like a physical blow because the answer was yes. God, yes, he wondered. He'd been wondering for three years what it would be like to have a wife who looked at him with something other than polite indifference, who touched him because she wanted to rather than because it was expected, who might actually choose him instead of simply tolerating him.

And now he had a woman in his house who looked at him like he was dangerous and fascinating and worth fighting, who blushed when he teased her, who sought his comfort in the dark without calculating the cost. The fact that she wasn't actually his wife somehow made it both better and infinitely worse.

His laptop chimed with an incoming video call, and he glanced at the screen to see his business partner's name. Right on schedule. James Webb never missed their weekly catch-up, even when Grayson was supposedly dealing with a family emergency.

"You look like hell," James said without preamble when Grayson accepted the call. "Rough night?"

"Power outage. Storm knocked out half the grid." Grayson settled into his desk chair, automatically arranging his expression into its usual mask of cool control. "How did the Singapore meeting go?"

"Successfully closed, thanks to your notes on their negotiation style." James leaned back in his chair, studying Grayson with the sharp eyes that had made him a formidable corporate attorney. "But let's talk about what's really keeping you up at night. How's the wife situation?"

Grayson kept his expression neutral. James was one of the few people who knew the true nature of his marriage arrangement, who understood that Lailah had been more business partner than romantic partner. "Complicated."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer you're getting."

James laughed, the sound crackling through the laptop speakers. "You know, in all the years I've known you, I've never seen you avoid talking about anything. Especially not a woman." He paused, his expression growing more serious. "She's getting to you, isn't she?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Right. And I suppose the fact that you've canceled four meetings this month to stay home has nothing to do with whatever's happening in that fortress of yours."

Had he really canceled that many meetings? Grayson mentally reviewed his schedule, realizing with some surprise that Marcus was right. He'd been finding excuses to stay close to home, telling himself it was to monitor the situation, to gather more information about his uninvited houseguest.

But the truth was simpler and more dangerous: he was enjoying himself.

For the first time in years, he was looking forward to coming home. He was intrigued by the woman who read classic literature in his library, who ate breakfast in silk nightgowns, who invented charitable events with underwater yoga and mermaid instructors. She was like a splash of color in his carefully monochrome world, chaos wrapped in designer clothes and expensive perfume.

"I have everything under control," he said finally.

"Famous last words." Jamess's grin was visible even through the video call. "Look, Gray, I've been your friend for fifteen years. I was there when you married for duty instead of desire, and I watched you turn into a robot because of it. If this woman—whoever she really is—is making you feel human again, maybe that's not such a bad thing."

Whoever she really is. James was fishing, trying to figure out how much Grayson knew about his domestic situation. It was a reasonable assumption that Grayson had uncovered at least some of the truth, given his resources and natural suspicion.

"The situation is temporary," Grayson said, which was true enough. One way or another, this couldn't continue indefinitely.

"Is it? Because from where I'm sitting, you look more alive than you have in years. Maybe temporary isn't what you really want."

Before Grayson could respond to that uncomfortably perceptive observation, there was a soft knock on his office door. He glanced at the time—11:47 PM. Far too late for Mrs. Baker to be interrupting, which meant...

"I have to go," he told James. "We'll continue this conversation later."

"We'd better. And Gray? Whatever you decide to do about your houseguest, make sure it's what you want, not what you think you should want."

The call ended just as the knock came again, more hesitant this time. Grayson closed his laptop and moved to the door, already knowing what he'd find on the other side.

Mailah stood in the hallway, and she looked like a vision designed specifically to torment him. She'd changed into a silk robe, her hair falling in soft waves around her shoulders, her feet bare against the marble floor. She looked vulnerable and beautiful and completely unaware of the effect she was having on him.

"I'm sorry to bother you," she said, her voice soft and uncertain. "I saw the light under your door and thought... are you leaving again tonight? For your emergency?"

He should say yes. Should maintain the fiction that business was calling him away, that he had important matters to attend to that had nothing to do with her or the increasingly complicated web of lies they were both maintaining.

Instead, he found himself leaning against the doorframe, drinking in the sight of her nervous energy and the way she kept tucking her hair behind her ear when she was anxious.

"The emergency resolved itself," he said, which was technically true. Detective Martinez could wait until the weekend for official notification of Lailah's burial. "Why aren't you asleep?"

"I couldn't sleep. Too much on my mind." She glanced past him into his office, taking in the expensive furniture, the wall of monitors displaying global market data, the leather-bound books that actually got read rather than serving as decoration. "This is where you work?"

"Sometimes." He stepped aside, a gesture that could be interpreted as invitation. "Would you like to see?"

She hesitated for a moment, clearly torn between curiosity and the knowledge that being alone with him in his private space was probably not the wisest choice. Curiosity won.

"It's incredible," she breathed, moving into the room and turning in a slow circle to take everything in. "How do you keep track of all this information?"

"Practice." He watched her examine his setup, noting the way she unconsciously avoided touching anything, as if she were afraid of leaving fingerprints. "And an excellent memory for patterns."

"Patterns?"

"Market fluctuations, behavioral indicators, the subtle tells that reveal when someone is lying." He said the last part deliberately, curious to see her reaction.

She went very still, her back to him as she studied one of his monitors. "That must be useful in business."

"Essential." He moved closer, close enough to catch the scent of her shampoo—something floral and expensive that Lailah had never worn. "People rarely say what they actually mean, especially when they have something to hide."

Her shoulders tensed, but she didn't turn around. "Everyone has secrets."

"True. But some secrets are more interesting than others."

This time she did turn, and he found himself looking down into eyes that were trying very hard to appear calm and failing spectacularly. She was afraid, but there was something else there too—a spark of defiance that he found far more appealing than fear.

"What kind of secrets do you find most interesting?" she asked, and he had to admire her courage in asking the question.

"The kind that make people do desperate things." He stepped closer, closing the distance between them until she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. "The kind that drive someone to take incredible risks for the chance at a different life."

Her breath caught, and he could see the rapid flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat. She was terrified, but she didn't back down, didn't look away from his steady gaze.

"And what do you do," she asked quietly, "when you discover someone's desperate secret?"

The question hung in the air between them, loaded with implications and unspoken confessions. He could end this right now, could tell her that he knew exactly who she was and what she was doing in his house. Could demand the truth and watch her carefully constructed world crumble around her.

Instead, he reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the same nervous gesture he'd watched her make a dozen times. His fingers lingered against her skin, feeling the warmth of her cheek, the slight tremor that ran through her at his touch.

"That depends," he said softly, "on whether I find the secret... entertaining."

Before she could respond, before either of them could acknowledge the dangerous territory they were venturing into, the lights flickered and went out again.

This time, though, Grayson was ready for her reaction. His arms came around her before the panic could fully set in, pulling her against his chest in a gesture that was becoming dangerously familiar.

"It's alright," he murmured against her hair. "Just another power surge."

But even as he comforted her, even as she melted against him in the darkness with that same trusting vulnerability that had undone him earlier, Grayson found himself wondering who was really in control of this game they were playing.

Because standing there in his office, holding a woman who wasn't his wife but who felt more real than anything in his carefully constructed life, he was beginning to suspect that he might be the one in danger of losing everything.

The lights flickered back on, and Mailah pulled back just enough to look up at him, her eyes wide and questioning. And in that moment, Grayson made a decision that would have shocked his business associates and terrified his enemies:

He was going to let this dangerous, beautiful, lying woman continue her charade for as long as she wanted to play.

After all, the most interesting games were the ones where both players had something to lose.

"I should let you get some sleep," he said, stepping back and immediately missing her warmth.

"Yes," she agreed, but she made no move toward the door. "Tomorrow's conversation..."

"Will wait until tomorrow." He moved to his desk, putting safe distance between them. "Good night, Lailah."

And then, with a small smile that held promises and threats in equal measure, he turned his attention back to his laptop.

"Sweet dreams... wife."