THE SOUND had vanished as suddenly as it came. Mailah lay still, staring at the door long after the quiet returned. Moonlight spilled into the room, sending shadows waltzing across the walls.
She tried to steady her breathing, told herself it was nothing—an old house creaking, settling into the night.
But her body didn't believe it.
Eventually, sleep found her like a slow tide pulling her under, and just before the dark took her completely, one thought drifted through her mind:
Who are you really, Grayson Ashford?
—
The room was warm. Warmer than it should have been. She blinked and realized the light was different—golden, dreamlike. She was no longer in bed but standing barefoot in Grayson's study. Except, it wasn't quite the same.
The air shimmered with something strange and sultry. The tall windows were thrown wide open to the night, letting in a soft breeze that carried the scent of jasmine and firewood. The hearth burned brighter, almost alive. And behind her, the heavy curtains had been pulled back to reveal tall windows thrown open to the night air.
Then she saw him.
Grayson.
But not the man she knew. Not exactly.
His usual cold restraint had melted into something more molten, more magnetic. He wore a white shirt, unbuttoned just enough to show the curve of his collarbone and the dip of muscle at his chest. The sleeves were rolled to his forearms, and his dark slacks hung low on his hips.
His blue eyes—no longer icy—burned. They locked on her with unrelenting focus.
"Mailah," he said, and his voice—it caressed her name like silk. Not clipped or formal. Soft. Hungry.
She froze.
He'd called her Mailah.
Grayson never did that. Not in the real world. In reality, he only ever called her Lailah—her twin sister's name. He didn't know the truth.
This was a dream.
It had to be.
Still, her heart leapt at the sound of her own name on his lips. He said it like a secret, a word only he was allowed to speak.
"You're here," she whispered, surprised at her own voice.
He smiled, slow and devastating. "Where else would I be?"
She tried to step back, but her feet wouldn't move. He came to her instead, his approach fluid and sure. The distance between them vanished with each measured step.
"You're different here," she said, breathless.
His gaze swept over her, lingering on her bare shoulders, the thin straps of her silk nightdress, the rise and fall of her breath. Her body ached under that look, heat spreading down her neck to the tips of her fingers.
He didn't deny it. Instead, he closed the distance between them, his hand lifting slowly—giving her time to move, to refuse, to pull away.
She didn't.
He brushed a loose strand of hair from her cheek and let his fingers linger there, featherlight. "Maybe this is who I am when I don't have to pretend."
She felt her breath catch. His touch was electric, and where he held her, her skin seemed to remember something deeper than just touch.
"Then why do you pretend?" she asked.
His scent wrapped around her—dark, heady, rich. She could feel the hum of his presence in her bones.
"Because if I didn't..." His voice dipped into something dangerously low. "I might not stop."
He reached up then—so slowly it was unbearable—and brushed his fingers along her cheek. They were warm, reverent. Her breath hitched, her skin singing at the contact.
"Do you want me to stop?" he asked softly, his thumb pausing at the corner of her mouth.
She shook her head.
"No."
The word was barely out of her lips before he stepped much closer, crowding her body with his. But still—he didn't kiss her. Not yet.
Instead, he leaned in so close his lips grazed her temple, the shell of her ear, her jaw.
"Do you know what it does to me?" he whispered, voice rough and velvet all at once. "Wanting you this much?"
She couldn't speak. Her hands moved without permission, curling into the fabric of his shirt. Her fingers tightened around him as though to ground herself.
"Say my name again," she whispered.
His lips ghosted across her skin until they were just a breath away from hers.
"Mailah."
And that was it.
The final thread of restraint snapped.
He claimed her lips with a hunger that stole the air from her lungs. The kiss was no gentle question—it was a declaration. A possession.
Her mouth opened for him, and he tasted her like she was something forbidden and sacred all at once.
His hands moved to her waist, sliding down, pulling her against him with a low growl of satisfaction when she gasped into his mouth.
He kissed her like a man starved. Like a man who'd been waiting far too long. Like a man who had already imagined a thousand ways to worship her, and now, finally, had permission.
Not with the hesitance of the man she knew, but with something darker, deeper, a need that curled around her spine and set every nerve on fire.
His kiss was molten, precise. He wasn't rushing; he was tasting. Exploring.
The world faded.
There was only Grayson. His mouth. His hands. The low, guttural sounds he made when she moaned softly against him.
He lifted her effortlessly, setting her on the edge of his desk. Her legs parted without thinking, and he stepped between them, his body heat wrapping around her like smoke.
Her body arching into him as he devoured her mouth again and again, deeper, slower, more devastating each time.
She clung to his shirt, fingers fisting the fabric, and gasped when he kissed down her jawline to the pulse at her neck.
"Do you feel it too?" he asked against her skin. "This hunger?"
She nodded, unable to speak.
"I dream of you," he said, pulling back just enough to look into her eyes. "Even when I try not to."
The admission made her breath hitch.
In the dream, Grayson didn't hesitate. He didn't apologize. He didn't hold himself back like a man afraid of what he might become. Here, he worshipped her with reverent hands and smoldering eyes, tracing the line of her spine like it was sacred.
"You deserve to be touched like this," he said, voice rough with sincerity. "Held like this."
Every word struck something raw inside her. In the waking world, Grayson always seemed too careful, as if afraid to break something—her, maybe. Himself, more likely.
But this dream version of him? He was everything she'd ever wanted but had never allowed herself to admit.
She should've known it was a dream. That no man looked at her like this. That no man—especially her cold, enigmatic husband—could kiss her with this kind of soul-deep hunger and say, "I ache when you're near."
But the dream wrapped around her like velvet, and she didn't want to wake up.
Not yet.
Mailah stirred awake with a sharp inhale.
Her dress clung to her skin, damp with sweat, and the sheets were tangled around her thighs like silk restraints. Her breath came fast, uneven, and her heart raced as though she'd been running—not from danger, but from pleasure.
The dream still held her.
Grayson's mouth on her skin. His fingers threading into her hair. That voice—low and reverent—repeating her name in a way no one ever had.
Mailah.
That was when she knew for certain.
It had been a dream.
Because in real life, Grayson didn't even know she was Mailah.
Only Lailah. The name she had borrowed. The identity she had slipped into like a second skin. And yet... the man in her dream had whispered her real name like a prayer.
She sat up slowly, her body sore in strange, pleasant places. Her thighs ached. Her lips tingled. Every inch of her was warm, humming, too aware of itself.
And the heat—it hadn't faded. It lingered. As if he'd really been there. As if her body still remembered.
She pressed her palms against her cheeks, mortified.
How could she ever look him in the eyes again?
That dream had been different from anything she'd ever experienced. Not just vivid. Not just steamy. But intimate. He'd touched her like he knew her. Loved her. Needed her in a way that had gone beyond physicality.
It had been... something else.
Something that scared her.
Trying to shake the lingering images from her mind, Mailah dragged herself out of bed and into the bathroom. A splash of cold water helped bring her back to reality, but the dream still clung to her like a lover's scent on her skin.
After a quick shower, she dressed quickly in a soft cashmere sweater and fitted jeans—anything to make her feel less bare. Then she made her way to the dining room.
Grayson would be there, she told herself. Sitting in his usual seat with that unreadable expression, sipping his coffee with meticulous indifference. She would pretend nothing had happened. Because nothing had happened. It had only been a dream.
Only...
The dining room was empty.
She frowned.
Only the gentle clinking of china as Mrs. Baker entered with a tray, setting it gently on the table. The smell of toasted bread and soft poached eggs filled the air.
"Good morning, dear," Mrs. Baker greeted her with her usual polite warmth. "You look a little flushed. Not feeling unwell, are you?"
Mailah forced a smile. "Just a weird night. I didn't sleep great."
Mrs. Baker poured her a cup of tea and hesitated. "Mr. Ashford didn't tell you?"
Mailah's stomach dropped. "Tell me what?"
"He left early this morning. Around four. Said he was flying to Vienna, and then to Tokyo afterward. A full month of business travel."
Her smile faltered. "He didn't say anything to me about that."
The older woman's expression softened. "Oh, I thought he would've... I'm sorry, dear. He seemed in a rush. I assumed you two had spoken."
Mailah stared down at her plate, her appetite vanishing.
A whole month?
He hadn't even said goodbye. No note. No message. Nothing.
After last night—after the kiss, the intimacy, the things he'd said—he'd simply disappeared.
It wasn't a coincidence.
He was avoiding her.
Because whatever was happening between them—whatever was building—he couldn't allow it to continue.
And yet…
He'd been in her dream.
He had kissed her like a starving man. Said her name like he'd known it all along.
Her fingers curled tightly around the teacup.
If he wasn't here...
Then why did it still feel like he was?
That night, Mailah went to bed hollowed out by disappointment.
She lay curled on the bed. Her chest felt tight, and no matter how hard she tried to rationalize it, the ache in her heart deepened.
She had kissed him. Opened herself to him. Trusted a crack in his armor. And he had slipped away like he always did—only this time, for a month.
A whole month.
She closed her eyes, fighting tears.
"Why did you leave?" she whispered to the empty room. "I don't care if it's pretend. I just wanted to feel like I mattered—even just a little."
She didn't expect anything to happen.
But the sadness settled so deep into her chest that it called him.
Not in the real world.
But in her dream.
In her dream, Grayson was there—dressed in black, bathed in moonlight. He appeared beside her like he'd been listening all along.
"I heard you," he said softly, stepping forward. "I shouldn't have left like that."
Mailah didn't hesitate this time. "You always run. You kiss me like I mean something, then you disappear like I don't exist."
His expression was regretful, but even in that sorrow, he looked painfully beautiful. "I know. And I'm sorry. Let me make it up to you."
"How?" she challenged, her voice cracking.
"Come with me," he said, offering her his hand. "Let me take you back to the Overlook. Like I promised."
And just like that, they were there—on top of a hill where he had first taken her days ago. The city sparkled below like a necklace of stars, and Grayson's motorcycle waited by the edge, gleaming silver under the moonlight.
He helped her on the back of the bike, and they rode together under the dream-sky, the wind kissing her cheeks, her arms wrapped around his firm torso.
For the first time in days, she laughed. It felt real.
He glanced back, eyes bright with mischief. "Told you I'd make it up to you."
"You're doing a decent job."
He smiled—and in that moment, she forgot all the mystery, the fear, the unanswered questions. All that mattered was this: Grayson, and the wind, and the feeling that maybe she wasn't invisible after all.
But just as they rounded a curve, something flashed in the road—a deer? A shadow? The dream swerved with them as the bike skidded.
Mailah screamed.
Then everything went black.
She jolted awake with a gasp.
The bedroom was quiet. Too quiet. And Grayson, of course, wasn't there.
She sat up, blinking, her heart pounding—not from fear, but from the strange echo of adrenaline that still pulsed in her veins.
The dream had felt so real.
The laughter. The cool wind on her skin. The way her arms had wrapped around him. Even the sudden shock of the crash.
It was almost too vivid.
Still smiling faintly, she reached to toss back the blankets—only to flinch.
Pain.
Her hip ached.
Frowning, she got out of bed slowly and shuffled to the bathroom. Maybe she had slept awkwardly? Pulled something?
She peeled off her clothes.
Then froze.
A large, purplish bruise had bloomed over her left hip.
Exactly where she'd hit the pavement in the dream.
She stared at it in the mirror, goosebumps rising along her arms.
What the hell?
It wasn't possible.
And yet—it was there.
And suddenly, her laughter from the dream felt far away, replaced by a chilling thought:
Where did the bruise come from?