Becoming Lailah: Married to my Twin Sister's Billionaire Husband-Chapter 218: The Sparring

THE AFTERMATH AT Ashford Global was less like a corporate workday and more like a high-speed cleanup of a natural disaster. By the time the sun began to dip behind the city’s jagged skyline, Mailah felt as though she had been hollowed out.

Grayson—or the man who now wore his face like a cold mask—had spent the afternoon tearing through the office like a scythe. He had fired three department heads, restructured the entire logistics division with a single, terrifying memo, and stared at the head of HR until the poor man had to be escorted out with a panic attack.

Mailah had spent every minute in his wake. She had followed him from office to office, whispering to trembling secretaries, rescinding "execution-style" terminations, and trying to remind the staff that their CEO hadn’t actually become a villain overnight—even though she was starting to suspect he had.

The humanity she and the "old Grayson" had worked so hard to build was gone. In its place was a cold, efficient machine that saw employees as numbers and empathy as a bug in the code.

By the time they pulled up to the estate, the silence in the car was so heavy it made her ears pop.

Grayson didn’t look at her. He didn’t offer a hand. He simply stepped out of the vehicle and walked toward the house.

"I have a headache," Mailah announced to the empty hallway as they entered.

Grayson paused at the foot of the stairs, his dark eyes flicking toward her for a fraction of a second. "Then sleep. I have matters to attend to."

He didn’t wait for a response. He turned toward the library, where the low hum of his brothers’ voices already vibrated through the floorboards.

Mailah didn’t argue. She climbed the stairs, her feet feeling like lead, and collapsed onto her bed. She didn’t even take off her shoes. She just closed her eyes and let the darkness take her, her mind a chaotic blur of dark gray and silver eyes and corporate memos.

When Mailah finally woke, the room was bathed in the deep, velvet blue of midnight. Her headache had faded to a dull throb, replaced by a gnawing emptiness in her stomach and a restless curiosity in her chest.

She slipped out of her room and padded down the hallway.

She found Mrs. Baker in the grand hall, clutching a silver tray like a shield. The older woman looked uncharacteristically pale. 𝙧𝙚𝙚𝔀𝒆𝓫𝓷𝙤𝓿𝒆𝙡.𝒄𝙤𝓶

"Mrs. Baker? Is everything alright?" Mailah whispered.

"Oh, Miss," the butler breathed, her eyes darting toward the closed library doors. "They’ve been in there for hours. I haven’t even dared to knock."

"They’re discussing the Gala," Mailah said, her gaze fixed on the oak doors.

Then she felt a cold jolt in her stomach. Feeding. Most probably.

A sharp, stinging jealousy suddenly flared in her chest. Will Grayson feed like a true incubus this time? Will he slip into the dreams of beautiful women in the city?

The thought of Grayson sharing that kind of heat with anyone else made her vision go blurry with anger.

She turned away before Mrs. Baker could see the look on her face and headed toward the kitchen, hoping a glass of water would cool the fire in her blood.

The kitchen was dark, save for a single light over the island. Mailah stopped short when she saw two figures leaning over the marble counter.

Carson was perched on a stool, looking like a mischievous teenager, while Mason stood beside him, his silver eyes gleaming in the low light. Between them sat a massive, leather-bound book. The cover was scarred, bound in what looked like dark, pebbled skin.

"Ah, finally," Mason drawled, not looking up. "I was wondering when you’d get lonely."

"What are you doing in here? I thought you were all in the library," Mailah asked, her voice wary.

"Just a little history lesson," Carson chirped, beckoning her over with a grin. "We figured since you’re going to the Gala, you should probably know who you’re actually dancing with. Grayson is... well, he was a bit of a revisionist. The old version liked to pretend his hands have always been this clean."

Mailah moved closer, her heart hammering. "What is that?"

"The Ashford Record," Mason said, his voice dropping to a low, chilling register. "Every conquest. Every ’feeding.’ Every soul he has claimed. It’s quite the page-turner."

Before Mailah could protest, Mason flicked his hand. The book fell open to a page filled with vivid, moving images—supernatural "photographs" that shimmered with a ghostly light.

Mailah gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.

The images were horrific. She saw Grayson—his face younger, harder, his eyes glowing like white-hot coals—standing in the center of a burning village. He was standing amidst the carnage, his hands dripping with something dark, his expression one of pure, terrifying boredom.

She saw him in another image, leaning over a woman whose face was twisted in a mix of agony and ecstasy, her life force being visibly drained into him like smoke. He looked like a god of ruin. There were images of him leading armies of shadows, of him breaking rulers, of him being the very monster the world feared in the dark.

"This is who he is, Mailah," Mason whispered, his voice echoing in her mind. "Not the man who gave you flowers in Tuscany. This is the man who created the Ashford name with us."

"Stop it," Mailah hissed, her eyes stinging. "He was different then. He changed."

"Did he?" Carson asked, his usual playfulness replaced by a sharp, clinical curiosity. "Or did he just get tired? Because the man in the library right now? He looks a lot more like the guy on page forty-two than the guy who cooked for you."

Mailah couldn’t take it. She slammed the book shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the quiet kitchen. She turned on her heel and marched out, her blood boiling with a mix of fear, betrayal, and a desperate, irrational need to see him.

She didn’t knock. She threw the library doors open with such force they bounced off the walls.

The three brothers went silent instantly. They were spread out around the room, looking like a council of dark gods. Grayson was standing by the fireplace, a glass of dark liquid in his hand.

"I believe I told you to sleep," Grayson said, his voice a low warning.

"Is it true?" she demanded, ignoring the two other pairs of eyes fixed on her. She marched right up to him, her face inches from his. "The things they showed me. The burning villages. The... the feeding. Is that who you are now?"

The other brothers exchanged amused glances. Ravenson leaned back in his chair, a small, dark smile playing on his lips.

Grayson didn’t blink. He didn’t look ashamed. He didn’t even look annoyed. He simply set his glass down on the mantle and looked her in the eye.

"Yes," he said. The word was flat, final, and utterly without regret. "I have destroyed more than you can imagine. I have taken lives to sustain my own. I have been the nightmare of better men than any you have ever met. Does that satisfy your curiosity?"

Mailah felt as though he had slapped her. "How can you say that so easily? The man I knew—"

"The man you knew was a shadow!" Grayson roared, his voice shaking the books on the shelves. He stepped into her space, his height looming over her. "He was a weak, pathetic version of me that was hiding from his own power. This is the truth, Mailah. I am a predator. I am a demon. And I will not apologize for existing."

"Then why am I here?" she cried, her voice breaking. "If you’re so ’real’ now, why don’t you just discard me like one of your victims?"

Grayson’s jaw tightened. His hand shot out, his fingers gripping her chin, forcing her to look up at him. His eyes churned with that frightening dark hue shot through with silver, turning them gray, yet beneath it burned a fierce intensity that made her knees tremble.

"Because," he rasped, his face inches from hers. "Even as a monster, I want you. And I can’t rid myself of that desire. "

He released her abruptly, turning to his brothers. "Get out. All of you. Now."

Lucson stood, smoothing his vest. "We’ll see you at the Gala after two days."

One by one, the brothers filed out. Ravenson was the last to leave, pausing at the door. "Careful, Grayson," he murmured. "The more you show her the truth, the more she’ll realize she doesn’t belong in it."

When they were alone, the silence was thick with unspoken words and a tension so sharp it felt like a physical weight.

"You’re going to the Gala," Grayson said, his voice cold and business-like. "And as you are now, you’re a liability. You’re soft. You’re slow. And you react with your heart instead of your head."

"What are you talking about?" Mailah asked, trying to steady her breathing.

"If you are to walk into a den of High Lords as my mate again, you need to know how to survive. Come," Grayson said.

He led her deep into the bowels of the estate, to a room she had never seen. It was a vast, circular chamber. The floor was covered in a heavy, dark mat, and the walls were decorated with weapons that looked far too old to be human.

Grayson stripped off his coat and unbuttoned his shirt, tossing it onto a bench.

Mailah’s throat went dry. His chest was a landscape of hard muscle and faint, silvery scars—marks of a history she had only just begun to understand.

"Attack me," he commanded, stepping onto the mat.

"What? I don’t know how to—"

"Attack me!" he barked. "Use that anger you had in the library. Hit me!"

She lunged at him, fueled by a sudden burst of frustration. She swung her fist at his chest, but he caught her wrist with effortless grace, spinning her around and pinning her back against him.

"Too slow," he whispered in her ear, his chest heaving against her back. "You’re thinking. Don’t think. Feel."

He released her, and she turned, swinging again. This time, she managed to catch his shoulder, but he barely flinched. He swept her legs out from under her, and she went down hard on the mat.

"Again," he said, standing over her.

For the next hour, they moved in a brutal, rhythmic dance. Mailah was sweating, her breath coming in ragged gasps, but she didn’t stop. Every time he pinned her, every time he knocked her down, she got back up.

The physical proximity was becoming unbearable. Every time his hands touched her—to block a strike, to steady her, to throw her—it felt like a bolt of electricity. She could smell the salt of his skin, the raw, masculine scent of him intensified by the exertion.

During the final round, Mailah managed to get a grip on his waist, trying to use her weight to pull him down. Grayson twisted, his arms locking around her, and they both tumbled to the mat.

He ended up on top of her, his knees pinning her hips, his hands locking her wrists above her head. They were both drenched in sweat, their chests heaving in unison.

Grayson’s face was inches from hers. His eyes were no longer dark gray; they had lightened to a soft gray, the silver flashes brighter now, focused entirely on her mouth. Mailah could feel the heat radiating off him—a heavy, pulsing energy that made her head swim.

Then, she felt it.

Even through the layers of their clothing, the physical evidence of his arousal was unmistakable against her thigh. Her breath hitched, her throat going bone-dry.

Grayson froze, his gaze snapping from her lips to her eyes.