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

GRAYSON’S CONTROL WAS FRACTURING.

He could feel it—the careful walls he’d built crumbling under her steady, knowing gaze.

He grabbed her wrist, intending to remove her hand.

Instead, he held it there, pressed against his chest, his fingers tight around her delicate bones.

For a long moment, neither spoke. The only sound was their breathing and the distant activity of security teams outside.

Then Grayson released her abruptly and turned to the window.

"You should rest," he said, his voice returning to that flat, controlled tone. "The wards will take effect fully by nightfall. Until then, stay away from the windows."

"You’re going to keep being like this."

He didn’t respond. Just kept his back to her, hands clasped behind him in a position that looked casual but was anything but.

Mailah made a sound of frustration. "Fine. Be cold and tactical. But you can’t kiss me like that and then pretend it meant nothing."

"It meant I’m not as controlled as I should be." He turned to face her, expression carefully blank. "It won’t happen again."

"Liar."

His jaw tightened. "Believe what you want."

"I will." She moved to her bag, pulling out clothes with sharp, angry movements. "And when you’re done pretending you don’t care, let me know. I’ll be in the bathroom."

She disappeared into the attached room, closing the door with more force than necessary.

Grayson stood alone in the suite, his hands clenched at his sides.

He should feel relief. Should be glad she was angry instead of looking at him with those eyes that saw too much.

Instead, he felt the absence of her presence like a physical thing.

His phone buzzed. A message from Lucson: Found the groundskeeper’s last known location. Abandoned apartment downtown. Signs of rapid departure. Sending team to investigate.

Grayson typed back: I’m coming with you.

A pause, then: What about Mailah?

Mason can watch her. I need to see this apartment myself.

Another pause. Understood. Meet at the garage in ten.

Grayson moved to the bathroom door and knocked once. "I’m leaving. Mason will be outside the door. Don’t go anywhere without him."

Silence.

"Mailah."

"I heard you." Her voice was muffled through the door. "Go do your tactical thing."

He should leave. Should just accept her dismissal and go.

Instead, he opened the door.

She was standing at the sink, hands braced on the counter, head bowed. Still dressed, not actually doing anything. Just standing there.

"What are you—" she started, turning.

He crossed the space in two strides, his hand finding the back of her neck, pulling her against him.

The kiss was hard, possessive, nothing gentle about it. His other hand splayed across her lower back, holding her in place.

When he pulled away, her eyes were wide, lips parted.

"That," he said, his voice rough, "is so you remember whose protection you’re under while I’m gone."

Then he released her and walked out, leaving her staring after him.

In the hallway, Mason was already positioned outside the door, arms crossed.

"She’s not to leave this room," Grayson said. "Not for any reason. If she tries, stop her."

"And if she insists?"

"Then sit on her if you have to. But she doesn’t leave."

Mason’s eyebrow rose. "You want me to physically restrain your—"

"I want you to keep her alive." Grayson’s voice had gone lethal. "Use whatever means necessary."

He didn’t wait for Mason’s response. Just headed for the stairs, pulling out his phone to call Carson.

"Need you at the estate. Mason’s on Mailah duty, but I want backup."

"Where are you going?"

"To find our leak." He took the stairs two at a time. "And when I do, he’s going to tell me everything he told Theron about her. Every detail. Every routine. Every vulnerability."

"And then?"

"And then I’m going to make sure he never reports anything to anyone ever again."

Carson was quiet for a moment. "You know Lucson won’t approve of torture."

"Lucson doesn’t have to approve. He just has to look the other way."

"Gray—"

"This demon has been watching her for three months, Carson. Cataloging her movements. Identifying when she’s most vulnerable. Reporting back to an archdemon who wants to use her against me." His hand tightened on the phone. "So yes, when I find him, I’m going to hurt him. And I’m not going to feel bad about it."

He ended the call and reached the garage where Lucson was already waiting beside a black SUV.

"Ravenson sent the coordinates," Lucson said, handing Grayson a tablet. "Third floor apartment, eastern district. Landlord says the tenant paid six months in advance, cash, gave a fake name."

"Smart." Grayson studied the building layout on the screen. "But not smart enough. Three months of watching us, and he got careless at the end. Left traces."

"Or he wanted to be found." Lucson’s expression was grim. "This could be a trap."

"Let it be a trap. I’m in the mood for violence."

They climbed into the SUV, and Lucson pulled out of the garage with controlled speed. The estate gates opened, then closed behind them with a heavy finality.

Grayson watched the estate disappear in the side mirror, thinking about Mailah in the warded room. Angry. Safe.

His.

The thought came unbidden, possessive and certain.

He didn’t fight it.

"You’re doing that thing again," Lucson observed.

"What thing?"

"Where you look like you’re calculating seventeen different ways to kill someone while simultaneously worrying about whether you left the stove on."

"I’m not worried about—"

"It’s a metaphor, Gray. You’re thinking about her."

Grayson didn’t respond. Didn’t need to. Lucson knew him too well.

At least the old him.

"For what it’s worth," Lucson continued, navigating through late afternoon traffic, "this version of you—the one who’s pretending not to care while clearly caring very much—is significantly more tolerable than the version who actually didn’t care about anything."

"I don’t—"

"Save it. I’ve known you for centuries. You’re not as good at hiding things as you think you are." Lucson glanced at him. "Especially from family."

They drove in silence for several minutes, the city passing by in a blur of buildings and people who had no idea demons lived among them.

"The groundskeeper," Grayson said finally. "When we find him, I need him alive long enough to answer questions."

"What questions?"

"What he told Theron. What Theron’s planning. How he plans to get to her." His jaw tightened. "And whether there are others. Other leaks. Other watchers."

"And after he answers?"

"After he answers, I don’t care what happens to him."

Lucson nodded slowly. "Understood."

The apartment building was exactly as unremarkable as the file suggested—mid-rise, older construction, the kind of place where people minded their own business and didn’t ask questions.

They parked two blocks away and approached on foot. Lucson had already sent a team ahead to secure the perimeter, and they were waiting in the building’s lobby.

"Third floor, apartment 3C," one of the security team reported. "No signs of occupation. Neighbors say they rarely saw the tenant, mostly came and went at odd hours."

"Perfect cover for surveillance," Lucson muttered.

They took the stairs, moving silently despite their size. At the third floor landing, Grayson paused, extending his senses.

No supernatural signatures. No wards or traps.

Either the groundskeeper was truly gone, or he was very good at hiding his presence.

Apartment 3C’s door was locked. Lucson produced a key—courtesy of the landlord—and opened it slowly.

The apartment was empty. Completely bare except for a few pieces of basic furniture. But something felt wrong.

Too empty. Too clean.

Grayson moved through the space methodically. Living room—nothing. Kitchen—nothing. Bedroom—

He stopped.

On the bedroom wall, covering nearly the entire surface, were photographs.

Of Mailah.

Mailah at the estate gardens. Mailah getting into the car. Mailah at a café in town. Mailah walking on the beach during their recent trip.

Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds. Three months of surveillance, cataloged and displayed like trophies.

Grayson’s vision went red at the edges.

"Gray." Lucson’s hand was on his shoulder, pulling him back from the photographs. "Don’t. Not here. We need to—"

Grayson shrugged him off and pulled out his phone. He took pictures of every photograph on the wall, documenting angles, timestamps visible in some of the images, locations.

Evidence. Intelligence. Tactical data.

And fuel for the cold rage building in his chest.

When he’d documented everything, he turned to Lucson. "Burn it. All of it. I don’t want any trace of this left."

"Gray, this is evidence—"

"I have copies. Burn it."

Lucson studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "Understood."

While Lucson coordinated with the security team, Grayson moved to the window. From here, he had a clear view of the route Mailah would have taken to the café. The groundskeeper had chosen his position well—perfect surveillance angle, easy to blend in with normal residents.

Three months. Three months of watching her, following her, documenting her every movement.

And Grayson hadn’t known. Hadn’t suspected. Had been so focused on his own internal conflicts and lost memories that he’d missed the threat literally living two miles from the estate.

His phone buzzed. A message from Mason: She’s asking where you are. What should I tell her?

Grayson typed back: Tell her I’m handling the security situation. I’ll be back within the hour.

A pause, then: She says that’s not an answer and you’re avoiding her.

Despite everything—the rage, the photographs, the violation of privacy plastered across the apartment wall—Grayson felt his mouth twitch.

Tell her she’s right. And that she should get used to it.

Mason’s response was immediate: You’re an idiot.

So I’ve been told.

He pocketed his phone and turned back to the room. The security team was already removing the photographs, carefully bagging each one for disposal.

"Sir," one of them called from the closet. "You need to see this."

Grayson crossed the room. In the closet, hidden behind a false panel, was a small shrine.

No, not a shrine.

A workspace.

Maps of the estate with guard rotations marked.

Schedules—Mailah’s, Grayson’s, all the brothers’. Notes in a language that looked like corrupted demonic script.

And in the center, a single object that made Grayson’s blood run cold.