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

Mailah didn't see Grayson for the next three days.

Not in the hallway. Not at breakfast. Not even during the thunderstorm the night after their unsettling conversation, when she'd lain awake in the enormous bed meant for two, her heart thudding in the dark while the rain lashed against the windows.

His side of the bed remained untouched. Cold. Pristine.

Mrs. Baker told her he had flown to Hong Kong for an urgent meeting. Mailah tried not to overanalyze the absence. It wasn't avoidance, she told herself. It was business. But each hour stretched into a quiet ache, and every time she passed by his closed office door, something in her chest tensed and refused to relax.

She'd started humming to herself in the mornings again. It helped.

Then, on the morning of the charity gala, Mrs. Baker appeared in her doorway with a knock and a crisp announcement.

"Mr. Ashford will be arriving late this afternoon straight from the airport. He'll be escorting you to the event, Mrs. Ashford. He asked me to let you know."

It was all said in the polite, professional tone Mrs. Baker always used, but the words landed like a firecracker in Mailah's chest.

Tonight. He would be here tonight.

Mailah nodded, forcing a smile. "Thank you. I'll be ready."

The female butler gave her a brief, unreadable look before turning away. As soon as the door clicked shut, Mailah launched into a whirlwind of movement.

She had exactly seven hours.

The closet was a dream. No—a battlefield.

Lailah had apparently treated fashion like a competitive sport. There were at least a dozen gowns that still had tags swinging from them, each more opulent than the last: silk, satin, velvet, sequins, beads, plunging necklines and delicate straps that looked like they were designed more for poetry than support.

Mailah stood barefoot on the plush carpet, chewing her thumbnail as she surveyed the options.

She had no idea what kind of dress Grayson might expect. Or worse, what Lailah would have worn.

Should she go bold? Safe? Sophisticated? Scandalous?

She ran her fingers along a shimmering champagne-colored slip dress before freezing at the sight of something buried in the back: a midnight blue gown with an open back and thin crisscrossing straps that made her think of constellations. The fabric was soft, almost liquid in her hands, and when she stepped into it, she found it fit her like a whisper.

Not too loud. Not too demure. Just... perfect.

Her reflection stared back at her from the full-length mirror, a woman both familiar and foreign. She didn't look like Mailah. Or Lailah. She looked like someone reborn in between.

She exhaled slowly.

Now for the real challenge: Grayson.

Mailah descended the stairs just after six, her heels clicking against the marble with nervous precision. She expected the car to be waiting outside, perhaps a staff member ushering her directly into the town car without seeing him until the gala.

She did not expect to find him in the living room.

Grayson was standing by the window, framed by the fading twilight. He was already dressed for the gala, the tailored black tuxedo molding to his form like a second skin. The crisp white shirt, the perfect bow tie, the glint of a sleek silver watch on his wrist—he looked devastating. Imposing. And entirely untouchable.

One hand rested in his pocket, the other holding a crystal tumbler that caught the light like a prism. His profile was all harsh lines and indifference, as though he were carved from cold stone.

But he turned when she stepped into the room.

Their eyes met, and for one breathless moment, the world seemed to hold its breath with her.

Then that impossible man tilted his head the tiniest fraction.

"You're late," he said dryly.

Mailah blinked. "It's 6:05."

"Exactly."

Was that... humor? Her nerves jumped, half in alarm, half in hope. She moved toward him slowly, the way one might approach a tiger that hasn't eaten.

"Nice suit," she offered.

His gaze swept over her with surgical precision. Her skin prickled under the weight of it.

"The dress," he said finally, voice like aged bourbon, "is wasted on a night like this."

She blinked again. "I... what?"

He took a sip from his glass. "You should wear it when you want to ruin someone. Not at a charity function surrounded by bland hors d'oeuvres and gossiping heiresses."

Heat climbed up her neck. "So... that's a compliment?"

His lips curved. Almost.

"Try not to trip on the hem."

And just like that, the warmth flickered and vanished.

But she was still smiling as she followed him to the door.

The gala was held at the Astoria Grand, a place so opulent it made Grayson's estate look like a summer cabin. Gold-leaf molding, chandeliers the size of small planets, and a crimson carpet that led through the marble foyer into a ballroom glowing with candlelight and curated wealth.

Grayson offered his arm at the door. Mailah hesitated for half a second before taking it.

His bicep flexed beneath her fingers, and for a brief moment, she felt it again—that dizzying sensation that nothing in her life was real. That she was a hologram in someone else's fairytale. Or nightmare.

Inside the ballroom, heads turned.

Mailah felt the ripple of attention like static. The cameras, the murmurs, the curious glances from women who recognized Grayson Ashford and men who measured his tux against their own.

She smiled through it, her grip tightening slightly on his arm.

"You said this was a small event," she whispered.

"It is."

"There are six hundred people here."

"That's the reduced list."

She fought the urge to laugh hysterically. "Of course."

A waiter approached with a tray of champagne. Grayson took one and passed it to her without a word, then selected another for himself.

Mailah nodded her thanks and took a sip—more for courage than taste. Just as she swallowed, a woman in a blood-red dress slid into their orbit with the grace of a shark sensing blood.

"Grayson," the woman purred. "You brought her."

Mailah tried not to stiffen. The woman had cheekbones that could cut glass and a gaze sharp enough to perform surgery.

"Vanessa," Grayson replied coolly. "You remember my wife."

"Of course I do," Vanessa said, eyes never leaving Mailah's face. "You look... different."

Mailah smiled with all the warmth of a loaded gun. "New facialist."

Vanessa laughed, but the sound was hollow.

"Well, I suppose marriage suits you now. It certainly didn't before."

Grayson's fingers twitched against Mailah's spine, where his hand had settled. A warning? Or support? It was impossible to tell.

Vanessa flitted away after another backhanded compliment, and Mailah exhaled.

"Friend of yours?"

"In a manner of speaking."

They moved through the room like a single unit, Grayson perfectly composed, Mailah floating just beside him, her senses on high alert.

She laughed when she should, nodded when she had to, and bluffed her way through three conversations with committee members she vaguely remembered reading about in Lailah's notes. The room smelled like perfume, expensive cheese, and polished ambition.

They were halfway through the evening when it happened.

She was just turning toward the dessert table when a voice called from behind her.

"Mailah?"

It wasn't loud. Barely audible above the string quartet playing something by Mozart. But her body froze all the same.

Slowly, she turned.

A man stood by the far wall, a plate of tiramisu forgotten in his hand. He looked stunned.

"It is you," he said, stepping closer.

Mailah's mouth went dry.

She knew that face.

Luca. Her old coworker. From the art gallery. The one who used to sneak her leftover wine from events and talk about his dream of moving to Berlin.

Grayson appeared beside her like a shadow.

"Friend of yours?" he asked calmly, copying her exact question earlier

Mailah opened her mouth. Closed it.

Luca was still approaching.

"I thought you moved out west," he said, eyes narrowing slightly. "Or... wait. You look..."

She did the only thing she could think of.

She laughed.

"You must have me confused with someone else," she said, offering a breezy smile that she hoped didn't look like a panic attack in progress. "I get that a lot."

Luca blinked. Frowned. "No, I—"

"Excuse us," Grayson interrupted smoothly, taking her elbow and steering her away with effortless authority.

When they were halfway across the room, Grayson leaned in slightly, voice low and smooth against her ear. "Who was that?"

Mailah forced a smile. "Just someone who has mistaken me for someone...I guess."

Grayson's gaze flickered toward Luca, then back to her, unreadable as ever. "Interesting."

That was all he said.

No suspicion. No accusations. No questions.

He steered her gently away, his hand cool and steady on the small of her back, and for one disorienting second, she almost believed she'd gotten away with it.

They paused near the balcony, where the air was fresher, cooler, less saturated with wealth and scrutiny. She leaned on the marble rail, trying to slow her heart.

Grayson guided her toward the balcony, the night air cool against her flushed skin. She leaned on the railing, trying to steady her breathing.

She turned to him. "Do you regret bringing me?"

His gaze was unreadable, his expression carved in granite.

"Ask me again tomorrow."

Then he walked away.

She stared after him, heart thudding.

And didn't notice that behind her, someone else had stepped onto the balcony—someone who had seen her, heard her laugh, and wasn't buying her story at all.