Grayson's mouth moved to her throat, and she arched beneath him, her hands tangling in his hair as he found that sensitive spot just below her ear that made her gasp his name.
"Grayson," she breathed, and he lifted his head to look at her.
Lust darkened his gaze, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths.
Then suddenly, his expression contorted in pain. He pressed the heel of his hand against his temple, his jaw clenching as he squeezed his eyes shut.
"Grayson?" Mailah's voice was immediately filled with concern. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," he said through gritted teeth, rolling away from her and sitting up on the edge of the bed. "Just a headache. We should go back to sleep."
The dismissal stung, but she could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands trembled slightly as he rubbed his temples. "Are you sure? I could get you some—"
"I'm fine." His voice was sharper than intended, and he seemed to realize it because he softened his tone. "Really, Lailah. Just tired."
Mailah hesitated, watching him in the flickering firelight. The passionate man who had been kissing her breathless moments ago was gone, replaced by someone who looked like he was in genuine pain. She wanted to reach out, to comfort him, but his rigid posture screamed don't touch.
"Okay," she said quietly, settling back against the pillows. "If you're sure."
Grayson lay back down, but he faced away from her, his body a tense line beside her. The space between them felt like an ocean now, when moments before there had been no space at all.
Mailah stared at the ceiling, her heart still racing from their kiss, her body still humming with unfulfilled desire. But worry gnawed at her. The way he'd grabbed his head, the pain that had flickered across his features—it hadn't looked like just a headache.
She listened to his breathing, waiting for it to even out, for the tension to leave his body. But minutes passed, and he remained rigid, his breathing too controlled to be natural.
Unable to stand it anymore, she rolled onto her side and slowly, carefully, reached out to him. Her arm slipped around his waist, her chest pressing against his back as she held him gently.
He went completely still.
For a moment, she thought he might pull away, might tell her to stop. But he didn't. He just lay there, tense as a bowstring, as if he was afraid to move.
"I'm not going anywhere," she whispered against his shoulder blade, her lips brushing the warm skin there. "Whatever it is, you don't have to face it alone."
Something in his breathing shifted. Not quite a sigh, not quite a sob, but something that sounded like relief mixed with desperation.
Gradually, she felt the tension begin to leave his body. His breathing started to deepen, become more natural. His hand found hers where it rested against his chest, his fingers intertwining with hers.
She stayed awake until she was certain he was asleep, until his breathing became deep and even, until the last of the tension melted from his frame. Only then did she allow herself to drift off, her arm still wrapped around him, her heart full of questions she didn't know how to ask.
Mailah woke to sunlight streaming through the heavy curtains and the sound of movement in the room. She blinked, disoriented for a moment, before remembering where she was. The guest room. The fire. Grayson's headache.
Grayson.
She turned, expecting to find him beside her, but the bed was empty. The sheets on his side were cool to the touch, suggesting he'd been up for a while.
"Good morning."
His voice came from across the room, and she looked up to find him already dressed in a crisp white shirt and dark slacks, looking every inch the billionaire businessman.
If she hadn't witnessed his vulnerability last night, she might have thought it was a dream.
"Morning," she said, sitting up and pushing her hair back from her face. "How are you feeling? Your headache?"
"Better." He was adjusting his cufflinks, not looking at her. "Mrs. Baker said the east wing should be cleared by this afternoon. You'll be able to move back to your room."
Your room. Not our room. The distance in his voice made her chest tighten.
"Right," she said, trying to keep her voice neutral. "That's good."
He glanced at her then, and for just a moment, she saw something flicker in his eyes. Regret? Longing? But it was gone so quickly she might have imagined it.
"I have meetings all day," he said, moving toward the door. "But I'll be home for dinner. We should... talk."
He was gone before she could ask what about.
With a sigh, Mailah sank into the pillows, staring at the ceiling. The man who had held her with such desperate need last night, who had kissed her like she was oxygen and he was drowning, was gone. In his place was the cold, distant husband she'd first met.
But she'd felt him soften in her arms. She'd felt the way he'd gripped her hand like a lifeline. Whatever was happening with him, whatever was causing that headache, he wasn't as unaffected as he wanted her to believe.
A soft knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.
"Come in," she called, expecting Mrs. Baker.
Instead, a young woman entered—tall, blonde, and strikingly beautiful in a way that made Mailah's stomach clench with unexpected jealousy. She was carrying a tray of coffee and pastries, but her smile was too familiar, too knowing.
"Good morning, Mrs. Ashford," the woman said, her voice carrying a slight accent Mailah couldn't place. "I'm Elena, Mr. Ashford's assistant. He asked me to bring you breakfast."
"Oh." Mailah sat up straighter, suddenly very aware that she was wearing only Grayson's pajama shirt. "Thank you."
Elena set the tray on the nightstand, her movements graceful and efficient. "He also asked me to let you know that your personal items from the east wing have been cleaned and will be returned to your room this afternoon."
"That's very thoughtful of him."
"He's a very thoughtful man," Elena agreed, and there was something in her tone that made Mailah's skin prickle. "Very... attentive to detail."
The way she said it made Mailah wonder exactly what kind of attention Elena had received from Grayson. The thought made her stomach twist unpleasantly.
"How long have you worked for him?" Mailah asked, trying to keep her voice casual.
"Three years," Elena replied, smoothing down her already perfect hair. "We work very closely together."
The words 'very closely' hung in the air between them like a challenge.
Mailah forced a smile. "How nice for both of you."
Elena's smile widened, sharp as a blade. "Yes, it is. Will there be anything else, Mrs. Ashford?"
"No, thank you."
When Elena left, Mailah found her appetite had vanished. She picked at the pastries, her mind racing. Was she imagining the undercurrent of hostility? The way Elena had said 'closely' like it had layers of meaning?
She shook her head, trying to dispel the thoughts. She was being paranoid. Elena was just his assistant. Beautiful, perfect, obviously- infatuated-with-her-boss assistant, but just an assistant.
Still, the interaction left her feeling unsettled. Like there were undercurrents in this house she didn't understand, relationships and histories she knew nothing about.
She was living her sister's life, but she was beginning to realize just how little she actually knew about that life.
The day passed slowly. Mailah spent most of it in the library, trying to distract herself with books, but her mind kept wandering to the night before. Grayson's kiss had been fierce, filled with urgency and need.
The way he'd looked at her this morning like she was a stranger.
By evening, she was wound tight with nervous energy. She'd changed into one of Lailah's dresses—a simple black number that hugged her curves. She'd styled her hair the way her sister used to, applied her makeup with the same precision. She was playing a role, and she needed to remember that.
As she stood before the mirror, Mailah couldn't help but wonder what Lailah had felt getting ready for evenings like this. Had she been nervous too? Had she stood in this same spot, adjusting the same dress, preparing to face the same man?
The reflection staring back at her was identical to her sister's, yet everything felt foreign—the expensive fabric against her skin, the weight of the jewelry, even the way the light caught the burgundy highlights in her hair that she'd had touched up to match Lailah's exact shade.
She practiced her smile, the one she'd memorized from the photos scattered throughout the house. Lailah's smile had been softer than hers, more reserved. Mailah's natural expressions were too animated, too genuine for the role she was playing. Everything about Lailah had been calculated, refined—the product of a life lived in luxury and careful breeding.
The house felt different in the evening light. Shadows stretched longer across the marble floors, and the silence seemed heavier, more expectant.
Mrs. Baker had left dinner warming in the kitchen before departing for the night, as she always did when Grayson was expected home. Mailah had learned the routine by now—the subtle choreography of a household that ran on unspoken rules and careful timing.
She found herself wandering the halls, her heels clicking against the stone with each step. The sound echoed in the vast space, making her hyperaware of her presence in a house that still felt more like a museum than a home.
Portraits of Grayson's ancestors lined the walls, their stern faces watching her with what felt like disapproval. She wondered if they could sense the impostor walking among them.
In the main living room, she paused at the piano—a beautiful grand that looked barely touched. There were no photos of Lailah and Grayson together anywhere she could see, no evidence of a happy marriage or shared memories. The realization struck her as profoundly sad. What kind of life had her sister really lived here?
Grayson arrived home at exactly seven o'clock, as punctual as always.
Her heart immediately started racing. She smoothed her dress one final time, checked her lipstick in the hallway mirror, and tried to steady her breathing.
The familiar sound of tires on gravel announced his arrival, followed by the precise closing of a car door. She counted his footsteps on the front steps, heard the knob turning.
She waited, listening to the familiar sounds of his arrival routine—the rustle of his jacket being removed, his footsteps across the marble foyer. He moved through the house with the confidence of someone who owned every inch of it, every sound deliberate and controlled.
When she finally made her way to find him, he was in his study, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, a glass of whiskey in his hand. The room smelled of leather and cedar, with undertones of his cologne lingering in the air.
He looked up when she entered, his gaze taking in her appearance with an intensity that made her skin warm.
"You look beautiful," he said, and there was something in his voice that made her breath catch.
"Thank you." She moved closer, noting the way his eyes tracked her movement. "You said we should talk."
"I did." He set down his glass and turned to face her fully.
"About last night."