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

"THAT’S IMPOSSIBLE," Grayson said quietly.

"I triple-checked. The signatures are legitimate. Verified against our security database." Lucson’s expression was grim. "Gray, the person who approved all three hires, who vouched for their backgrounds, who gave them access to this estate—"

"Was me."

The words hung in the air like a death sentence.

"Before the memory loss," Lucson clarified. "Eight months ago, you personally approved these hires. Signed off on their backgrounds. Gave them clearance."

Grayson stared at the signatures—his handwriting, his authorization codes, his approval—and tried to reconcile them with the fact that all three had fled when the investigation started.

"I was compromised," he said finally. "Eight months ago, something happened that made me approve informants for my own estate."

"Or you knew they were informants and approved them anyway."

"Why would I—" He stopped. Thought. "Unless I was already investigating Theron. Already suspecting he’d try something. And I wanted to know what information he was getting."

"You were running a counterintelligence operation. Using the informants as a controlled intelligence leak." Lucson’s tone was carefully neutral. "That’s extremely risky. And it means you knew Theron was coming for you eight months before he actually made his move."

Eight months.

Before Mailah. Before the beach house. Before any of this.

Grayson pulled out his phone and called Carson. "I need you to search my office. Pre-memory loss. Look for files on Theron. Operation plans. Anything related to counterintelligence."

"What am I looking for specifically?"

"Evidence that I knew about these informants. That I approved them deliberately." He paused. "And evidence of what I was planning to do about Theron before I lost my memories."

He ended the call and turned back to Lucson. "If I was running a counterintelligence operation, there would be documentation. Plans. Contingencies."

"Unless you kept it completely off-record. Which would be smart given how thoroughly Theron had infiltrated the estate."

"I’m not that paranoid."

"You are when you think someone’s trying to kill people you care about."

The words landed with uncomfortable accuracy.

Before Grayson could respond, his phone rang.

Carson.

"Found something. Your private safe. Combination-locked, no electronic access. There’s a file inside labeled ’Nightweaver Protocol.’"

"Bring it to the security center. Now."

Five minutes later, Carson arrived with a thick file folder. Grayson opened it and started reading.

His own handwriting. His own strategy. A comprehensive plan to identify, track, and eliminate Theron as a threat.

And at the center of it all, highlighted and underlined: Use someone as bait. High risk. Only if no other option.

Grayson stared at the words he’d written eight months ago. Before meeting Mailah. Before caring about her. When she was just an abstract variable in a strategic equation.

"You were planning to use someone against Theron," Lucson said quietly. "Even before you knew Mailah."

"I was planning contingencies. All of them." Grayson flipped through more pages. "Including scenarios where Theron identified a vulnerability and I used that vulnerability to trap him."

"And then you lost your memories. Lost the context. Lost the plan." Carson leaned against the wall. "So when Theron made his move, you were reacting instead of executing a strategy you’d already prepared."

Grayson continued reading. The plan was thorough. Ruthless. Exactly the kind of cold calculation he’d expect from himself.

And nowhere in it—not once—did it account for the possibility that the human variable might become something more than a tactical asset.

"The plan assumed I’d stay detached," he said finally. "That emotional attachment wouldn’t be a factor."

"But it is a factor," Lucson said. "Which means the plan doesn’t work anymore."

"Or it works better." Grayson closed the file. "Theron expects me to be emotional. Reactive. Protective to the point of making tactical errors. That’s what the dream-walk was designed to reinforce. What if I give him that? What if I let him think I’m so consumed with protecting her that I’m making mistakes?"

"While actually executing the original plan."

"Modified for current circumstances. But yes." Grayson’s mind was already recalculating variables, adjusting strategies. "Theron thinks he’s found my weakness. I’ll let him believe it. And when he comes for her—"

"He’ll find exactly the trap you planned eight months ago."

It was elegant.

Cold.

Exactly the kind of strategy his pre-memory self would have approved.

Except for one variable.

Mailah.

Who would be at the center of it. Who would be the bait. Who would be in danger whether she agreed to it or not.

"You’re going to have to tell her," Carson said, reading his expression. "You can’t execute this without her knowing the role she’s playing."

"I know."

"And she’s going to have opinions about being used as bait."

"I know that too."

Lucson and Carson exchanged glances.

"For what it’s worth," Lucson said, "you’re supposed to be a strategic genius but also kind of an asshole. But now that you’ve caught feelings again, you at least have the courtesy now to feel bad about using people."

"I don’t feel bad. I feel practical."

"Keep telling yourself that."

Grayson left the security center with the file under his arm, his mind already working through how to present this to Mailah.

How to explain that eight months ago, he’d planned to use someone as bait without knowing who it was. How to convince her to agree to a plan that put her directly in Theron’s crosshairs.

How to reconcile the cold strategic calculation with the fact that losing her was now unacceptable.

When he reached the west wing, Mason was still at his post. "She’s been quiet. Too quiet, if you ask me."

Grayson pushed the door open.

Mailah was exactly where he’d left her. But her expression when she looked up told him she already knew something had changed.

"What happened?" she asked.

He closed the door behind him and held up the file.

"Eight months ago," he said, "I started planning how to kill Theron. And you were part of that plan. Before I ever met you. Before I knew who you were."

She went very still. "What kind of part?"

"The kind where I use you as bait to draw him out." He moved closer, watching her face. "And I need to know if you’re willing to do that again. Knowing what it means. Knowing the risk."

Mailah looked at him for a long moment. Then at the file. Then back at him.

"Tell me the plan," she said.

And Grayson knew, in that moment, that past-him had been wrong about one critical thing.

She wasn’t just a variable.

She was the variable.

The one that changed everything.

Grayson opened the file on the bed between them, spreading out documents marked with his own handwriting.

Strategic assessments. Tactical diagrams. Contingency scenarios.

All written by a version of himself who hadn’t known her name.

"The core strategy is simple," he said, his voice flat and clinical. "Theron wants something he can use against me. I give him exactly that—a target so obvious, so vulnerable, that he can’t resist taking it."

Mailah leaned forward, studying the documents. "Me."

"Someone," he corrected. "The plan was written before I knew who that someone would be. It just says ’high-value target with emotional attachment.’" His jaw tightened. "Turns out that’s you."

She picked up one of the pages, reading his notes. Her expression didn’t change, but he saw her fingers tighten on the paper.

"You were very thorough," she observed. "Estimated probability of success: 73%. Acceptable casualty risk for the bait: moderate to high." She looked up at him. "Define ’acceptable.’"

"Under 40% chance of serious injury or death."

"So a 60% chance I survive relatively intact. Those are wonderful odds."

Her tone was dry, controlled.

Not afraid. Not angry. Just... calculating.

It unsettled him.

"The plan accounts for heavy protection," he said, pulling out another document. "Theron would have to get through significant obstacles to actually reach you."

"But the whole point is making him think he can reach me. Otherwise it’s not convincing bait." She set the paper down. "What happens when he takes it?"

Grayson pulled out the tactical diagram, spreading it across the bed. "We stage a vulnerability. Make it look like security has been compromised. You’re moved to a secondary location—something that appears less secure but is actually the most heavily defended position we have."

"Where?"

"The original plan suggested the old greenhouse on the south grounds. It’s isolated, appears abandoned, but the structure is reinforced and the sight lines are perfect for an ambush."

Mailah studied the diagram, her finger tracing routes. "He comes for me thinking I’m poorly protected. Walks into a kill zone. Your teams close in from multiple directions." She looked up. "What’s my role during all this? Besides sitting there looking vulnerable?"

"Staying alive. Following extraction protocols if the situation deteriorates."

"That’s it? I’m just passive bait?"

"You’re human. Against Theron, anything else would be suicide."

She was quiet for a moment, still studying the plans. Then: "This version of you who wrote this. He didn’t care about the bait, did he? About whoever ended up in that role."

Grayson could have lied. Should have lied.

"No," he said instead. "He cared about eliminating the threat. The bait was just a tactical necessity."

"And now?"

"Now I care about both." He pulled the documents toward him, his hands spreading flat on the pages. "Which is why this plan won’t work."

"Why not?"

"Because Theron expects me to be protective. Emotional. Making decisions based on keeping you safe rather than strategic advantage."

His jaw worked. "If I put you in that greenhouse and something goes wrong—if there’s a variable I didn’t account for, a weakness in the plan—I won’t stick to protocol. I’ll break position to get to you. And that’s exactly the opening Theron needs."

Mailah tilted her head, studying him. "So the plan fails because you care too much."

"Yes."

"Then stop caring."

The words landed like a slap.

"What?"

"Stop caring." She said it matter-of-factly, like she was suggesting he change his shirt.

Grayson stared at her.