The moment Grayson disappeared, Mailah bolted from the dining room like her silk nightgown was on fire. She practically sprinted back to the master bedroom, her bare feet slapping against the marble with undignified haste. The humiliation was burning through her veins like liquid fire, and she couldn't shake the memory of his amused voice or the way his eyes had lingered on her body.
Transparent in morning light. The words echoed in her mind as she caught sight of herself in one of the bedroom's many mirrors. Oh god, he was right. The delicate silk that had seemed so elegant in the dim lighting of early morning was now practically see-through in the bright sunlight streaming through the windows. Every curve, every line of her body was visible beneath the thin fabric.
She had basically been standing there naked, and he had seen everything.
"Brilliant, Mailah," she muttered to herself, stripping off the traitorous nightgown and tossing it aside. "Absolutely brilliant. First day of actually interacting with your supposed husband and you flash him like some sort of perverted exhibitionist."
She needed to get herself together. Fast. If she was going to successfully impersonate Lailah, she couldn't afford to make any more mistakes like this. She needed to act more like her twin sister, which meant figuring out what exactly her sister's daily routine looked like.
The shower was a sanctuary of hot water and steam, washing away the embarrassment and giving her a chance to think clearly. As she stood under the powerful spray, she tried to piece together what she'd learned about Lailah's marriage. They apparently hadn't shared breakfast in months, which suggested they lived almost separate lives. Lailah had an assistant who called about social events. She was involved in charity work and gallery openings.
Most importantly, Grayson clearly expected certain behavior from his wife—behavior that Mailah had obviously not been displaying.
After what felt like an hour but was probably only twenty minutes, she emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a plush towel, her skin pink from the heat and her hair damp against her shoulders. She needed to get dressed, needed to look the part of the sophisticated socialite wife.
Lailah's wardrobe was like something out of a fashion magazine. Designer clothes in every color imaginable, shoes that cost more than most people's monthly salaries, jewelry that probably required its own insurance policy. Mailah ran her fingers along the hanging garments, feeling overwhelmed by the choices.
Finally, she selected a cream-colored cashmere sweater and tailored navy pants that looked both elegant and professional. The clothes fit perfectly, of course—she and Lailah had been identical in every way except for the lives they'd lived. She blow-dried her hair until it fell in smooth waves around her shoulders, applied makeup with a practiced hand, and slipped into a pair of nude heels that made her legs look impossibly long.
Looking at herself in the mirror, she had to admit she looked the part. Sophisticated, wealthy, put-together. Nothing like the woman who'd been caught in a transparent nightgown an hour ago.
Now for the assistant situation. Grayson had mentioned someone calling about events, which meant there were social obligations she was supposed to be fulfilling. If she was going to avoid suspicion, she needed to figure out what those were.
Lailah's phone sat on the nightstand, sleek and expensive like everything else in her life. Mailah had been using it for weeks, but mostly just for basic functions. Now she scrolled through the contacts, looking for anything that might indicate an assistant.
There it was: "Emma Chen (Assistant)."
Mailah stared at the entry, her heart skipping a beat. The way it was labeled, with the word "assistant" in parentheses, seemed almost deliberate. As if Lailah had set it up specifically to help someone who might need to know who was who.
Had her sister planned this? Had she known that she might need these kinds of clues?
She thought for a moment about what to say, then typed out a message that she hoped sounded appropriately Lailah-like: "Hi Emma, I've been feeling a bit scattered for weeks. Could you remind me of my schedule for the rest of the week? Thanks."
She hit send before she could second-guess herself, then waited, staring at the screen. One minute passed. Then two. No response.
Maybe Emma was busy. Maybe she was in a meeting. Maybe—
The phone remained stubbornly silent.
Deciding she needed to keep herself occupied while she waited, Mailah left the bedroom and wandered through the house. She'd explored most of it over the past few weeks, but there were still rooms she'd barely glanced at. The house was so massive that she'd probably never see all of it.
She found herself drawn to the library, a gorgeous room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, comfortable reading chairs, and large windows that overlooked the estate's gardens. It was one of her favorite places in the house—quiet, peaceful, and filled with the comforting scent of old books and leather.
Settling into one of the overstuffed armchairs, she selected a novel from a nearby shelf and tried to lose herself in the story. But her mind kept wandering back to the morning's encounter. The way Grayson had looked at her, the teasing note in his voice, the unexpected warmth in his eyes when he'd seemed genuinely surprised by her presence.
She was so absorbed in her thoughts that she didn't notice the soft click of a door opening somewhere in the depths of the library. It wasn't until she heard footsteps that she looked up, and her heart immediately began racing.
Grayson was walking toward her, but this wasn't the perfectly dressed businessman from breakfast. His suit jacket was gone, his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and the top few buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing a glimpse of chest that made her mouth go dry. His hair was slightly mussed, as if he'd been running his fingers through it, and there was a relaxed quality to his movements that she hadn't seen before.
He must have been working in some sort of office connected to the library. Of course a house this size would have multiple workspaces. Why hadn't she thought of that?
"Well," he said, that familiar amused tone creeping into his voice, "look who's finally decided to get dressed."
She felt heat rise in her cheeks again. "I showered," she said, then immediately regretted it. Why did she always say the most obvious things when she was nervous?
"I can see that." His eyes traveled over her appearance, taking in the cashmere sweater, the perfectly styled hair, the carefully applied makeup. "Much better."
She wasn't sure if that was a compliment or not.
"I was just..." she gestured vaguely at the book in her lap, "reading."
"Pride and Prejudice." He glanced at the cover, one eyebrow raised. "Interesting choice."
"You know it?"
"I went to college, Lailah. Of course I know it." He moved closer, and she caught that intoxicating scent again—cedar and something expensive and uniquely male. "Though I'm surprised you're reading it. You usually prefer those fashion magazines."
Fashion magazines? She filed that information away for later. "I felt like something different today."
"You keep saying that." He settled into the chair across from her, close enough that she could see the way his shirt pulled across his chest when he moved. "Something different. As if you're a completely different person."
Her heart stopped. Did he suspect something? Had she given herself away already?
"I don't know what you mean," she said, proud that her voice came out steady.
"Don't you?" He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, bringing him closer to her. "You're reading classic literature instead of Vogue. You're eating breakfast at home instead of rushing off to some charity committee meeting. You're..." his eyes searched her face, "actually here instead of floating through the house like a beautiful ghost."
A beautiful ghost. Was that how he saw Lailah? How he saw her?
"Maybe I'm just tired of rushing around all the time," she said carefully.
"Are you?" He tilted his head, studying her with those intense blue eyes. "Because I have to admit, I'm finding this version of you rather... intriguing."
The word sent a shiver down her spine. She tried to focus on the book in her lap, but the words blurred together. She was acutely aware of his presence, of the way he was watching her, of the strange tension that seemed to crackle in the air between them.
"Hasn't your assistant called you?" he asked conversationally, glancing at the device on the side table.
She looked up sharply. "What?"
"Emma. I assume that's why you're hiding in here instead of being at whatever event you're supposed to be attending." He gestured toward her phone with casual interest.
Hiding. Was that what she was doing? "I'm not hiding."
"No?" He leaned back in his chair, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Then what would you call it?"
"Reading," she said defensively.
"In a library that you haven't visited much lately." His expression grew more thoughtful. "Though I have to say, it's refreshing to see you taking an interest in books again."
She blinked.
Books again? She was treading on unfamiliar ground. "I've always enjoyed reading."
"Have you?" He tilted his head slightly. "You've been quite the busy socialite these past few years. When did you find time for classic literature?"
She needed to be more careful. "I suppose I'm just going through a... phase."
"A phase." He repeated the word thoughtfully. "Yes, you do seem to be going through quite a few phases lately."
The word 'phases' hung in the air between them, loaded with implications she couldn't quite decipher. Before she could ask what he meant by that, he stood up, and she thought he was going to leave, but instead he moved to the bookshelf behind her chair. She could feel his presence, warm and solid, as he reached over her shoulder to pull out a book.
"If you're going through a literary phase," he said, his voice close to her ear, "you might enjoy this one."
He set the book on the small table beside her chair, and she saw it was a leather-bound copy of Jane Eyre.
"Another classic," she observed.
"Mmm." He was still standing behind her chair, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his body. "You always did have good taste in literature, even if you haven't indulged it lately."
The comment felt loaded with meaning she couldn't quite grasp. Had Lailah been a reader before? When had she stopped?
"Sounds interesting," she managed.
"It is." He moved back around to face her, his expression thoughtful rather than suspicious. "Though I'm curious about this sudden return to your old interests. First the library, then classic literature. You haven't touched a book like this in... what, two years?"
Was he questioning her, or just making an observation? His tone seemed more puzzled than accusatory.
Before she could respond, he leaned forward slightly, his intense blue eyes fixed on hers with an unsettling directness. "Tell me, Lailah," he said quietly, his voice carrying a weight she couldn't quite identify, "what's with the changes?"