Mailah gripped the steering wheel like her life depended on it, even though she was barely going forty. The car—no, Lailah's car—purred beneath her like a spoiled cat that didn't belong in her world. White leather seats, zero-gravity acceleration, and a digital dashboard that probably needed its own IT department. Her foot hovered cautiously over the brake. Every bump on the road made her wince like she'd dented gold.
"Relax," she muttered to herself. "You're just driving your dead twin sister's luxury car to her billionaire husband's mansion to pretend to be her. No big deal."
The GPS spoke in a silky British accent, which felt unnecessarily judgmental. "In one mile, turn right onto Versailles Drive."
Of course it was called Versailles. Because normal streets like Oak Lane or Main Street just weren't good enough for people like Lailah.
Mailah blew out a shaky breath as wrought iron gates came into view, flanked by tall hedges and an honest-to-God marble lion statue. The estate beyond looked like something out of a Regency drama, all columns, balconies, and the kind of architectural confidence that said, We have more money than empathy.
She rolled down the window, heart hammering in her chest, and scanned the security panel. There was no one around.
"Here goes nothing," she whispered, then pressed the button.
The gate clicked, creaked, and opened slowly. No questions. No guards. Just... welcome, stranger.
Mailah crept forward, half-expecting alarms or lasers or a team of butlers to tackle her. But nothing happened. The car glided up a cobblestone driveway, past manicured gardens and a fountain that probably cost more than her entire childhood.
As the house loomed closer, Mailah caught her reflection in the rearview mirror.
She had curled her hair like Lailah did. Wore her soft nude lipstick. Chose the outfit her sister had suggested in the letter—a pale blue wrap dress with just enough elegance to pass in this world, but not enough to make her feel like a fraud. Still, the woman staring back at her looked like Mailah wearing a costume.
She parked beneath a marble archway and turned off the engine. Silence rushed in.
"Okay," she said, adjusting her necklace. "You can do this. Just channel your inner Lailah. You're poised. Mysterious. Maybe a little aloof. Definitely not someone who says 'oh crap' every five seconds."
She stepped out of the car and expected a butler. A maid. A dog. Anything.
Nothing.
The front door was ajar, as if someone had forgotten to lock it. She hesitated on the threshold. This is it. You're in.
The foyer was absurd. Chandeliers. Art. A sweeping staircase. She walked in like a nervous ghost, every footstep echoing through polished marble. Still, no one came.
Mailah blinked, confused. According to Lailah's letter, there was a housekeeper. A female butler? (Is that a thing?) But no one was waiting. Maybe Lailah had exaggerated how "watched" her life was.
She wandered past gilded mirrors and silent hallways until she found the bedroom. Her bedroom now.
It was massive. Bigger than her entire apartment. A four-poster bed. Velvet chaise lounge. French doors opening onto a terrace. She stepped inside, suddenly exhausted. She dropped her bag and flopped onto the bed.
"Holy crap," she whispered into the plush pillow. "I'm living inside a perfume commercial."
Three months earlier, she had been living paycheck to paycheck, shelving books and eating cup noodles like it was a food group.
Then Lailah appeared.
Mailah remembered it vividly. She'd just finished a shift at the bookstore when she saw her. Across the street. Leaning against a luxury car like a model in a shampoo ad. Dressed in cream silk. Her hair gleaming.
Mailah had dropped her coffee.
The woman looked up and smiled—the exact same smile Mailah saw in the mirror every morning.
"Mailah," she said, as if greeting an old friend. "It's been a while."
"Lailah?" Mailah had whispered. "Is this a prank? Are we in a soap opera?"
Lailah laughed. And just like that, the air shifted.
They spent weeks catching up. It was like falling in love with a version of herself she never got to meet. Lailah had grown up in Europe, went to private schools, traveled the world. But despite the luxury, there was a softness in her. An ache.
"I always knew you were out there," Lailah had confessed once, sipping wine on the balcony of her penthouse. "I used to dream about you. I even wrote poems about a missing part of me."
Mailah had snorted. "I wrote angsty blog posts about how I probably had an evil twin somewhere stealing my good karma."
They laughed until they cried.
Then, slowly, Lailah faded.
She started coughing more. Sleeping more. Eating less. Until one night, she handed Mailah two envelopes.
"When I'm gone," she said softly, "read the first one. The second… only if you're willing."
Mailah had argued. Screamed. Cried. But Lailah was calm, luminous even.
A week later, she was gone.
Mailah sat up on the bed and reached for the drawer. She pulled out the second envelope again, though she'd already memorized it.
It contained a photo—Lailah in a wedding gown beside a tall man in a black suit. Her husband. He looked like he belonged in a magazine ad for expensive cologne. Sharp jaw. Stormy eyes. Broad shoulders. Way too young to be some wrinkly tycoon.
And Lailah's words:
"He doesn't know I was sick. The marriage was arranged. Cold, but convenient. He won't ask questions. Just stay quiet, be me. You'll be safe. Maybe even happy."
P.S. He has a thing for late-night drinks and solitude. Don't take it personally.
Mailah had laughed the first time she read that. But now, the laugh caught in her throat.
She looked around. Everything smelled expensive. Like lavender and leather and secrets.
Where is he?
The letter said he was always traveling. Always distant. That she might not even see him for weeks.
Part of her was relieved.
Part of her was terrified.
Then, as the clock struck midnight, she heard the front door.
A thud. A shuffle. The sound of shoes being kicked off. A bottle clinking against a glass.
Footsteps.
Mailah's blood turned electric.
The bedroom door creaked open.
She shut her eyes quickly, heart pounding, pretending to sleep.
More footsteps. Closer. Closer.
A breath. A whisper against her ear.
"Lailah."
A hand slid across her hip, trailing up with familiarity and hunger. He smelled of whiskey and rain. Of longing.
Then the bed dipped as he collapsed beside her, sighing deeply.
Mailah kept her eyes closed, barely breathing. Her skin tingled.
What the hell had she just gotten herself into?
And then—warm lips brushed her bare shoulder.
She tensed. Completely still. He must've thought it was from sleep.
He exhaled against her skin, the heat of his breath sending shivers down her spine. "I missed you," he murmured, his voice deep, rich, and aching with something unspoken.
She didn't move. Couldn't. Shouldn't.
But her body betrayed her. Goosebumps rose across her arms. Her pulse thundered in her ears. The scent of him—smoke, night air, and something darker—wrapped around her like silk.
His hand moved again, slower this time, tracing the curve of her waist with the kind of intimate familiarity that made her blush under her closed lids. He leaned in closer, his nose skimming the shell of her ear.
"Lailah..." he said again, softer this time, like a secret prayer.
Mailah's breath hitched. Her thoughts were a mess of guilt and heat and what now?
His fingers traveled along her arm, caressing the sensitive skin of her wrist. Then up, to the dip of her collarbone. She felt him hesitate there, as if testing a memory. His breath deepened, heavier now.
Then, his mouth followed—pressing warm, barely-there kisses along her shoulder, her neck.
Her lips parted. She still said nothing.
Then his hand found her thigh, sliding just beneath the hem of her nightdress. Her entire body lit up like a live wire.
She almost gasped.
He paused. "You're quiet tonight," he murmured. "No questions. No complaints."
Mailah couldn't tell if it was a compliment or an accusation. But still, she said nothing.
He chuckled—low, almost bitter. "Maybe I should drink more often."
His voice wasn't sweet. It wasn't romantic. It was aching. Hollow. Needy.
And suddenly his mouth was on hers. Hard. Hot. Demanding.
Mailah froze.
He kissed like a man trying to forget. Desperate, almost angry. But his lips were too soft, too hungry, to be anything but real. Her heart shattered against her ribs. He thought she was Lailah.
And maybe that's why she kissed him back.
Just once.
Her fingers clutched the sheets beneath her. Her body trembled. His hand skimmed her back, pulling her closer, his other threading into her hair.
It was fire. Madness. Her skin melted into his.
But then—
He pulled away.
His hand dropped. His warmth vanished.
"Don't," he said coldly, as if choking on regret. "Don't make this mean something."
Mailah's eyes stayed shut, a tear escaping before she could catch it.
Then, just as suddenly, he pulled away with a groan and rolled onto his back beside her.
Moments passed.
Then his voice, thick with alcohol and exhaustion: "You smell different."
Her heart stopped.
A long pause. The silence stretched.
"But maybe that's a good thing," he muttered, his tone turning flat, detached.
Mailah stayed still, barely breathing. Her heart pounded, but not from attraction anymore—from nerves. From confusion.
Then his voice came again, colder this time, the warmth completely drained. "Don't get used to this."
Another pause.
"I won't be staying long."
He turned away from her, facing the opposite direction on the massive bed, creating a wall of silence that felt more suffocating than words.
No more whispers. No more touches.
Only distance. The kind that felt like it had always been there.
Mailah's eyes fluttered open in the dark.
And for the first time since she stepped into this world, she realized she hadn't just stepped into her sister's life—
She'd stepped into her sister's loneliness.
She turned her head slightly, watching the strong line of his back under the soft gray sheet. Even from here, she could feel the tension coiled beneath his skin, like he was made of stone and fire and couldn't decide which to be.
But something about the way he had touched her—slightly rough, desperate, fleeting—left a faint burn on her skin.
He had said not to get used to it.
But her body already remembered it.
Mailah exhaled slowly and dared to reach a hand toward the empty space between them. She didn't touch him—just hovered, like her fingers could trace the space her sister had once filled.
"I'm not her," she whispered, barely audible, as if saying it too loud would make everything collapse.
The only response was the steady rhythm of his breathing.
She rolled onto her back, staring at the velvet-draped ceiling. The man next to her was cold, unreadable—but for one moment, when he'd whispered her name, when his hand had found her waist, there had been something else there. A crack in the ice.
A part of her wanted to run. Another part wanted to see if she could slip through that crack before it froze over again.
She closed her eyes.
Maybe he would be gone by morning.
Maybe not.
Either way, the game had begun.
And she was no longer sure who was pretending.