Grayson vanished.
For three full days, Mailah didn't see him—not in the dining room, not in the garden, not even a passing silhouette in the long halls of the estate. It was as if the man had evaporated into shadows the mont that strange black envelope was placed in his hands.
She asked nothing.
And no one offered explanations. Not Mrs. Baker. Not Evelyn.
The mansion grew heavy with silence.
In the absence of Grayson's quiet intensity, Mailah tried to keep herself busy. Magazines began arriving the day after the shoot—thick glossy issues stuffed with their photos, with headlines like "Ashford Romance?" and "Inside the Gilded Walls of the Ashford Estate".
The images were intimate, artful. Her hand on his chest. His gaze on her lips. If she didn't know better, she'd have believed it herself. That they were in love. That they had shared sothing real that night.
Instead, he disappeared, and she was left grasping at the mory.
She buried herself in paints and brushes. But even the act of painting—usually so grounding—felt hollow. So she turned to the journals again.
Lailah's handwriting curled like vines across the pages.
Graduation. First solo trip to Paris. The awful date with the gallery intern.
Mailah devoured them like novels. They pulled her into a life both familiar and foreign. She laughed. She cried. She found herself whispering replies to the page, as if Lailah might still be listening.
So days, she forgot they'd never t in adulthood.
And then, just when the silence was starting to feel like suffocation—
Her phone rang.
Evelyn.
"There's a gala Friday," she said crisply. "Harper's and a few museum reps are attending. You and Mr. Ashford are expected to make an appearance. There will be press. We'll prep so photo ops beforehand. Hair and makeup will arrive at four."
Mailah blinked, the words slow to sink in. "Of course."
She didn't ask about Grayson. The humiliation of having to admit she hadn't seen her supposed husband in days was enough to keep her voice steady and professional.
The day of the gala arrived.
The team ca. She was styled and painted and zipped into a stunning erald silk gown that hugged her curves like liquid sin before flowing into an elegant A-line that brushed the floor. The neckline was sophisticated—a gentle V that hinted at femininity without screaming for attention. The fabric caught the light with every movent, and the subtle beading along the bodice added just enough sparkle to make her shimr like a jewel. Her hair was swept into a low chignon, exposing the graceful curve of her neck, and diamond earrings caught the light like captured stars.
Still, as she descended the grand staircase, her mood soured.
Mrs. Baker t her at the base of the steps. "The driver is ready. He's waiting at the front."
No ntion of Grayson.
No sign of him.
Mailah felt a surge of annoyance—or was it disappointnt?
Who did he think he was? Sending a car for her like she was so contracted escort?
Then again, she reminded herself bitterly, that's what this was, wasn't it? A performance. A lie.
She wasn't his wife.
He wasn't her husband.
The ride to the gala was a lonely affair. Mailah found herself staring out the tinted windows, watching the city lights blur past like falling stars. She practiced her smile in the reflection, adjusting the curve of her lips until it looked natural, effortless. The kind of smile Lailah might have worn.
The venue was already buzzing when they arrived. The tropolitan Museum's grand entrance was draped in elegant lighting, red carpet rolling down the steps like a river of luxury. Flashbulbs popped like fireworks. Reporters clustered behind velvet ropes, their caras ready to capture every mont.
Mailah took a deep breath, steeling herself for the performance ahead.
The car door opened.
She stepped out gracefully, one stiletto-clad foot first, then the other. The erald silk of her gown caught the light, and she heard the appreciative murmur of the crowd.
And then she saw him.
Grayson stood at the base of the red carpet, looking like he'd stepped out of a dream—or perhaps a nightmare, depending on her mood. He was devastating in a midnight-black tuxedo that was clearly tailored to perfection, hugging his broad shoulders and tall fra like it was made for him alone. His dark hair was styled with just enough tousle to look effortlessly perfect, and his eyes...
Those storm-blue eyes found hers across the chaos of caras and reporters.
Her heart did sothing embarrassing in her chest.
He approached with confident strides, and for a mont—just a mont—she thought she saw sothing familiar in his expression. The sa intensity that had burned between them during the photoshoot.
But then he was beside her, offering his arm with the practiced ease of a man who'd done this a thousand tis before.
"You look beautiful," he said, his voice low enough that only she could hear.
The words should have made her flutter. Instead, they felt... rehearsed. Like a line he'd morized for the caras.
"Thank you," she replied, slipping her hand through his arm. The familiar warmth of his touch sent electricity up her spine, but she noticed how he held himself—rigid, controlled. There was a careful distance between them, even as they walked arm in arm.
The caras exploded.
"Grayson! This way!"
"How long have you two been married?"
"Any plans for children?"
"Is it true you're expanding into European markets?"
Grayson's smile was perfection itself—charming, mysterious, giving nothing away. He guided her through the chaos with practiced ease, stopping at predetermined spots for photos. His hand would settle on her waist, and she'd lean into him, but she could feel the tension in his body. The way he positioned himself just so, creating beautiful angles for the caras while maintaining that invisible barrier between them.
It was maddening.
During the cocktail hour, they circulated through the crowd like a power couple from a magazine. Grayson introduced her to museum directors, art collectors, and society mavens with the sa polished charm he'd shown the caras. But every touch felt calculated. Every smile felt perford.
"The Ashfords!" A woman in diamonds the size of golf balls descended upon them like a glittering vulture. "You two are just radiant. That spread in Vogue was absolutely divine."
"Thank you, Mrs. Pemberton," Grayson replied smoothly. "Lailah was stunning, as always."
His hand found the small of her back—a gesture that looked intimate but felt distant. Mailah wanted to scream.
"And how are you finding married life, dear?" Mrs. Pemberton asked, her eyes bright with gossip-hungry curiosity.
"It's been... an adjustnt," Mailah said carefully, casting a glance at Grayson. "But Grayson makes it easy."
Liar, she thought. He makes everything complicated.
"Oh, young love," Mrs. Pemberton sighed dramatically. "I rember when Harold and I were newlyweds. We couldn't keep our hands off each other. Still can't!" She cackled at her own joke.
Mailah felt heat rise to her cheeks. If only this woman knew the truth—that she and Grayson had barely touched except for photo opportunities, that he'd been missing for three days, that whatever had been building between them had apparently evaporated along with whatever was in that mysterious black envelope.
The evening dragged on. Dinner was served in the museum's great hall, surrounded by priceless artifacts and the soft glow of chandeliers. Mailah found herself seated next to Grayson at a table full of important people whose nas she tried desperately to rember from Lailah's notes.
Throughout the al, Grayson played his part perfectly. He pulled out her chair, filled her wine glass, even laughed at her jokes. But there was sothing hollow about it all. Like watching a skilled actor perform a role he'd grown tired of.
"So, Grayson," said a man with a silver beard who'd introduced himself as sothing impressive in the art world, "I heard you're considering a new acquisition for your private collection."
"Perhaps," Grayson replied, cutting his steak with surgical precision. "I'm always interested in pieces that tell a story."
"Speaking of stories," the man continued, "how did you two et? I don't think I've heard the romantic tale."
Mailah's fork paused halfway to her mouth. She looked at Grayson, who seed unperturbed by the question.
"It was arranged," he said simply. "Our families thought we'd be well-suited."
The table fell silent for a mont, clearly expecting sothing more romantic.
"How... traditional," soone finally managed.
"It works for us," Grayson added, his tone suggesting the topic was closed.
Mailah wanted to kick him under the table. It works for us? That was his grand romantic explanation?
After dinner, there were more photos, more schmoozing, more carefully orchestrated monts where Grayson would touch her shoulder or whisper sothing in her ear for the caras. Each interaction felt more artificial than the last.
By the ti they were finally walking back to the car, Mailah was exhausted from the performance. Her feet ached in her heels, and her face hurt from smiling.
The ride ho started in silence. Grayson loosened his bow tie and leaned back against the leather seat, looking suddenly tired. The carefully maintained facade had slipped just enough for her to see the man underneath—and he looked troubled.
"Long night," she said, testing the waters.
"Mmm." He didn't look at her.
"The photos should be good. You played your part well."
That got his attention. His head turned toward her, eyebrows raised. "Played my part?"
"Don't act like that wasn't all performance back there," she said, surprised by her own boldness. "You were different tonight. Distant."
"I was being professional."
"Professional?" She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"What would you prefer I call it?"
The question hung between them like a challenge. Mailah studied his profile in the dim light of the car. His jaw was tight, his hands clasped in his lap with white knuckles.
"I'd prefer you call it what it is," she said quietly. "Sothing changed after that night in the library. You've been avoiding for three days, and tonight you treated like a stranger."
"We are strangers," he said coldly.
The words hit her like a slap, but she pressed on. "No, we're not. Not after what happened between us in the library. You felt it too, don't try to deny it."
"What I did was a mistake."
"A mistake?" Her voice rose despite herself. She glanced nervously at the partition between them and the driver.
"Don't worry about him," Grayson said, his tone clipped. "The partition is soundproof. He can't hear us even if we shout."
"Then why are you whispering like we're in a confessional?" she shot back.
"Because so things are better left unsaid."
"Like what? Like the fact that there's actually a human being underneath all that ice?"
His laugh was bitter. "You think you know ?"
"I know enough. I know that you're not as cold as you pretend to be. I know that sothing happened in that library that scared you."
"Scared ?" He turned to face her fully now, his eyes blazing. "You think I'm scared?"
"Yes, I do. I think you're terrified of sothing."
"And what makes you think you're worth feeling anything for?"
The question hung in the air like a blade. Mailah felt her cheeks burn with humiliation and anger.
"You're right," she said, her voice shaking. "What was I thinking? Why would you care about ?"
"That's not what I ant—"
"No, it's exactly what you ant. You've made it perfectly clear that this is all just business to you. A transaction."
"You're twisting my words."
"Am I? Then explain to why you disappeared for three days without a word."
"Because it's easier!" The words exploded from him, raw and desperate.
"Easier to what? Pretend to be married to ?"
"Pretend not to want you!"
The admission hung between them like a confession. Mailah stared at him, her heart pounding.
"You don't want ," she said, but her voice lacked conviction.
"You have no idea what you're talking about."
"Then tell ! Stop speaking in riddles and just tell what you want!"
"I want you to stop looking at like that," he said, his voice dangerous and low.
"Like what?"
"Like you actually give a damn about ."
"And what if I do care? What if I told you that I do give a damn about you?"
"Lailah," he warned.
"What? Should I not tell you the truth?"
"Why?" he demanded, his voice rough. "Why do you care? We've always been distant. This isn't the first ti."
"Sothing changed between us, and you know it."
Grayson shot her a strange look, but she was too angry to care.
"Is it? Is it really?" He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like we're right back where we started. Two strangers playing house."
"You're wrong."
"Am I? Then prove it."
The challenge in his voice made her blood sing. Without thinking, she leaned forward, closing the distance between them.
For a mont, they just stared at each other. Sothing electric pulsed in the space between them—unspoken, unresolved, and undeniably heated. Mailah could see the war raging in his eyes—want battling with restraint, need fighting against logic.
And then, as if sothing inside him finally snapped, he reached for her.
His hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head back as his mouth crashed against hers with desperate hunger. The kiss was fierce, frustrated, full of all the words they couldn't say and all the feelings they'd been trying to deny.
Mailah lted into him, her hands fisting in his jacket as she kissed him back with equal passion. This wasn't the careful, controlled kiss from the library. This was raw, honest, devastating.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Grayson rested his forehead against hers.
"This is insane," he whispered.
"I know," she breathed back.
"We can't do this," he said. "I should stay away."
He pulled back to look at her, his thumb tracing her swollen lips.
Before she could answer, the car ca to a smooth stop. They sprang apart, suddenly aware of where they were. Through the window, Mailah could see the familiar grand entrance of the estate, illuminated by soft lighting.
The driver's door opened, and footsteps approached.
"We're here," Grayson said unnecessarily, his voice hoarse.
Mailah smoothed her hair with trembling hands, trying to compose herself. "Grayson—"
"Don't," he said quietly.
The car door opened, and the driver appeared, professional and discrete as always. Grayson stepped out first, then offered his hand to help her from the car. His touch was warm, real in a way it hadn't been all evening.
They walked to the front door in silence, the gravel crunching under their feet. Mailah's mind was spinning with everything that had just happened. The kiss, the admission, the way he'd looked at her like she was everything he wanted and everything he couldn't have.
At the door, Grayson paused, his hand on the handle.
"I'm leaving tomorrow night," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "I have a business trip."
Mailah's heart sank. "Again?"
"I think it's best."
"Best for who?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he pushed open the door and stepped inside.
"Good night, Lailah," he said, and disappeared into the darkness of the house.
Mailah stood frozen on the doorstep, her mind reeling. Was he avoiding her on purpose after what had just happened between them?
Mrs. Baker appeared in the doorway, her face pale and strained.
"Mrs. Ashford," she said, her voice unusually tight.
"Is everything alright?" Mailah asked, noticing the way the older woman's hands shook.
"Ma'am," she said quietly, "there's sothing you should know. About tomorrow."
"What about tomorrow?"
Mrs. Baker's eyes darted nervously down the hallway before she spoke.
"Your mother-in-law is coming for breakfast."
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