Becoming Lailah: Married to my Twin Sister's Billionaire Husband-Chapter 109: The Door Out

MAILAH’S BREATH HITCHED.

The chandeliers still blazed, the violins still sawed their decadent tune, the guests still swirled in velvet and gold — but to her, the room had shrunk down to the man at her side.

Grayson’s eyes.

Silver. No longer the storm-blue-gray she had grown used to, no longer human at all. They glowed like molten mirrors, and she knew, in her bones, in her pulse that beat too fast, what that meant.

His demon was awake.

And here she was, standing beside an incubus.

Her stomach dropped. She’d been kissed by him. Touched by him. Wanted by him — and now she was realizing that desire wasn’t just dangerous. It was sustenance. To him.

God. I’m in a ballroom full of predators, and my date is starving.

Heat crawled across her skin, dizzying, unbearable. At first she thought it was her panic, but then her senses sharpened, almost painfully.

She smelled perfume, heady and cloying, as if roses had been boiled down into syrup. She heard laughter that bent, cracked, twisted into moans. She saw gowns sliding down shoulders, masks tipping back, mouths finding mouths, hands tugging and clawing at laces and buttons.

Her throat went dry.

The air itself tasted of something sweet, spiced, wrong. Aphrodisiac. Thick as incense.

The orgy had begun.

"Grayson," she whispered, choking, "I—something’s—"

His voice was hoarse, thick, as though he were speaking through smoke. His hand gripped her arm, steady and too hot at once. "Don’t look. Don’t breathe too deep. Don’t—"

His words cut off. His jaw locked.

Because even he was being affected.

Oh no.

Panic jolted through her. The one person she thought could anchor her in this fever dream of lust and madness was unraveling before her eyes. His lips parted as though tasting her breath.

His pupils swallowed the silver glow, leaving nothing but white fire. His hand slid an inch too far down her hip, fingers trembling like he was restraining himself by a thread.

He looked at her as if she were prey.

"Grayson," she said, trying for stern, but it came out soft, shaky.

He leaned closer, so close she felt the whisper of his lips at her ear. "You shouldn’t be beside me right now," he growled. His voice wasn’t quite his — deeper, darker, edged with something feral. "Not when every instinct in me is screaming to feed."

Feed. On her.

Her pulse stuttered.

Around them, the ballroom collapsed into something surreal.

Clothes slithered down silk-slick skin. Bodies pressed together in writhing shapes that blurred into each other, shameless and wild.

A laugh curved sharp in her ear and became a gasp, became a cry, became heat sliding against heat.

Mailah swayed, dizzy. The scent in the air coated her lungs, thick and sweet, crawling under her skin like fire.

Her own body betrayed her, humming with strange hunger, a low ache curling deep inside.

"No," she whispered, clutching at her skirts. "No no no. Not me."

She couldn’t do this. Not with Grayson, whose demon was sharpening his every edge.

Not with strangers. Not in a ballroom where desire was currency and she was the one of the most human, most fragile thing in the room.

Her vision swam. She blinked hard, trying to cut through the haze. That was when she saw her.

The woman.

The one with the chain.

Mailah’s heart lurched.

The human. The frail little thing bound to the withering old demon — Lord Varrow. Only... Varrow was gone.

The girl stood half-swaying, eyes glassy, skin flushed as though burning from the inside. Her fingers trembled at her side, her chain clinking faintly with every uneven breath.

She looked like she was drowning.

Mailah moved. Instinct, not thought.

But before she could take a step, a hand clamped around her arm.

Grayson.

She spun toward him, ready to fight, to plead, to shove. But his grip wasn’t to stop her. His silver-fire eyes locked onto hers, wild, burning.

"Get out," he rasped.

She froze.

"Now." His voice cracked like thunder, like something not meant for human ears. His hand shook against her skin. "Before I lose it. Before—"

He cut himself off, slammed his eyes shut.

"Go!" he roared.

Her chest constricted.

And then she nodded. Once.

She kicked off her strappy heels, the thin sandals skittering across marble. Her bare feet slapped cold against the floor as she bolted.

She didn’t think. She ran.

On the way, she caught the dazed girl’s arm. "Come on!" she hissed, yanking.

The girl stumbled, almost boneless, but didn’t resist. Didn’t even question.

Mailah dragged her, skirts tangling, heart pounding like a war drum.

Behind them, the ballroom grew louder. More laughter. More moans. A crash of glass. A song that was no longer music but something darker, primal, steady as a heartbeat.

They reached the doors. Mailah slammed into them shoulder-first, scrabbling for the knob with sweaty palms.

The moment it turned, she yanked hard and shoved both herself and the girl through.

The heavy doors shut behind them with a thud.

Silence.

Almost.

The corridor stretched empty, lined with shadowed portraits whose eyes seemed to watch their escape.

The sudden hush was dizzying after the fevered storm inside.

Mailah’s breath tore ragged from her throat as she leaned against the cool wood of the door.

Her chest heaved. Sweat dampened her hairline. The girl at her side sagged like she might collapse entirely.

Mailah grabbed her arm tighter. "Stay with me, okay? Don’t you dare faint, I’m not strong enough to princess-carry you out of here."

The girl blinked once, vaguely, like her brain was wrapped in fog.

Mailah swore under her breath.

She looked both ways.

Left — darkened halls, endless portraits. Right — the curve of a staircase and, beyond, the door she remembered. The restroom. Her only landmark in this maze.

"Alright," she muttered, mostly to herself. "Bathroom it is. Nobody ever dies in a bathroom. Horror movies taught me that. ...Okay, no, horror movies taught me the exact opposite, but let’s be optimistic for once."

She looped the girl’s arm over her shoulder and half-dragged her down the corridor. Their footsteps echoed too loud in the hush, the marble cold under her soles.

The restroom door appeared like a miracle. She shoved it open with her hip and pulled them both inside.

Cool tile. Brass fixtures. A mirror that thankfully didn’t shimmer or grin or sprout fangs. For the first time in what felt like hours, Mailah breathed.

She locked the door.

The door clicked shut behind them with a sound far too loud, echoing like a gavel strike in Mailah’s skull. She pressed her back against the wood, chest heaving, as if she’d just outrun death itself. Maybe she had.

Then she sagged against the door, sliding halfway down before catching herself. Her legs shook too badly.

The marble room was quiet except for their ragged breaths. A gilded mirror stretched across the wall, reflecting the flushed ruin of their faces.

The chandeliers in here glowed softer, less frantic, but the faint echo of the ballroom music still trembled through the walls—a reminder of what they’d just escaped.

The girl slumped against the sink, pale and trembling.

Mailah grabbed a towel, soaked it under the faucet, and pressed it against her face.

"Hey. Hey, stay with me. What’s your name?"

The girl’s lips moved. Barely. "...Elin."

Mailah exhaled hard. "Okay, Elin. Good. You’re talking. Talking is excellent. Talking means not dying."

Elin’s lashes fluttered, heavy. "It hurts."

Mailah bit her lip. "I know. I think—I think it’s whatever they’ve got in the air out there. You just need to... flush it out. Maybe. Hopefully."

God, she was guessing. She knew nothing about supernatural ballroom orgies and their party favors.

She pressed the towel firmer to Elin’s skin, trying to cool the feverish heat.

And tried not to think about the fact that somewhere beyond that door, Grayson was still inside.

Grayson, the incubus. Grayson, whose eyes had already turned silver.

Her Grayson.

The thought made her stomach twist, sharp and traitorous.

She should be terrified. She was terrified. But under the fear, threading through it like wildfire through dry grass, was something else.

A reckless hunger. A need that made her hands shake, not just from panic.

Because she’d felt his mouth. His hands. The way he looked at her before his demon surfaced. And God help her, she wanted more.

Even if it killed her.

"Poison," Mailah muttered. She yanked a towel from the counter, dampened it under the golden faucet, and pressed it to Elin’s temples. "Not literal, but close enough. Magic. Gas. Whatever we inhaled in there—it’s working through our blood."

Elin shuddered. "It feels like—like fire under my skin. I can’t—" She clawed lightly at her own arms as if trying to scratch the sensation out.

"Don’t," Mailah snapped, catching her wrists. Their eyes met, and something desperate flickered there, mirrored in both women. Mailah forced her tone gentler. "Don’t fight it like that. Breathe. Just breathe with me."

She inhaled deeply through her nose, exaggerated, then exhaled slow.

After a beat, Elin copied her. Again. Again. The rhythm steadied.

But the longer Mailah held her, the more she realized the fire wasn’t just in Elin. It licked at her own veins too—hotter, sharper, almost unbearable.

Her body hummed with unnatural want, her skin hypersensitive to every brush of fabric, every bead of sweat.

No, no, no. She gritted her teeth.

Elin noticed—the way Mailah’s hands trembled, the way her pupils had widened to match her own. "You too," she whispered.

Mailah forced a laugh that came out wrong. "Lucky me." She staggered back, grabbing the sink to keep herself upright. The cool porcelain burned against her feverish palms, but she clung to it like a lifeline.

Elin pushed herself shakily to her feet. She wobbled, then caught Mailah’s arm. "Sit—before you fall."

"I’m fine."

"You’re not," Elin said softly, but there was iron beneath her fragility. She tugged her toward the floor, and somehow Mailah let her. Her legs buckled with relief the moment she sat.

For a moment, they were two women caught in the storm of someone else’s world—no masks, no predators, no rules. Just the raw, ugly truth of survival.

Minutes bled by. Slow, aching minutes of shared breathing, whispered curses, whispered reassurances.

And then—finally—the edge began to dull. The feverish heat receded, leaving Mailah trembling but lucid again.

Elin, too, seemed clearer. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs she’d been holding back.

Mailah touched her arm. "Hey. You’re okay now. We’re out. We made it out."

Elin’s breath hitched. Her eyes filled, spilling tears she tried to wipe away with trembling fingers. "No. I’m not okay. I can’t be."

Mailah frowned, tightening her grip. "What do you mean?"

Elin pressed her palms against her eyes, muffling a broken laugh. "Because I have to go back."

The words chilled Mailah’s blood more than any supernatural glamour could.

She grabbed Elin’s wrists, forcing her to meet her gaze. "Back? To that? To—what, exactly? Where is Varrow?"

Elin flinched at the name. Her lips parted, quivering. "He went somewhere. With... with some woman."

Mailah’s jaw clenched. The image flashed in her head—Lord Varrow’s hollow, withered form, yet still powerful enough to pull anyone into his orbit. "So he’s in there. In that—whatever they’re calling it. That orgy."

Elin’s tears spilled faster. She nodded once, almost violently. "Yes. And if he notices I’m gone—" She broke off, covering her mouth like the words themselves were forbidden.

"Then what?" Mailah pressed. "What happens if he notices?"

Elin’s silence was answer enough.

Mailah’s stomach twisted. She leaned closer, lowering her voice into a fierce whisper. "Listen to me. You don’t have to go back. Not to that. Not to him. You understand?"

Elin shook her head, sobbing harder. "You don’t know what he’ll do. If he finds me missing, it’ll be worse. For me. For everyone."