Becoming Lailah: Married to my Twin Sister's Billionaire Husband-Chapter 223: The House of Ashford

THE HIGH KING waved a hand, and the center of the ballroom cleared. The human "vessels," still dazed and glassy-eyed, were ushered to the edges of the room by silent servants. The marble floor in the center began to glow with a faint, sickly light, forming a ring about thirty feet wide.

"Lord Vane," the King called. "Defend your seat, or forfeit your life."

Vane stepped into the circle, his silk suit shimmering. He looked nervous, but a cornered predator is often the most dangerous. He hissed, a sound that started in his chest and ended in a display of elongated fangs. "You think you can just walk back in here after years of playing human and take what is mine, Ashford? I will consume what’s left of you."

Grayson finally let go of Mailah. He didn’t look at her with love; he looked at her with the possessive focus of a King checking his borders.

"Stay with my brothers," he commanded.

Mailah didn’t move. She stood her ground, her hands clenched at her sides. "I’m not going anywhere with them. They’re just as bad as you."

Carson appeared at her side in a blur. He didn’t say anything funny this time. He just gripped her elbow with a strength that brooked no argument and pulled her back toward the edge of the circle.

"Let go of me, Carson!" she snapped.

"Zip it, Mailah," Carson muttered, saying her name for the first time in a long time, his voice surprisingly grave. "You want to be mad? Fine. Be mad later. Right now, if you’re not behind the Ashford line, the splash damage from this is going to turn your brain into fondue. Watch the show."

Mailah looked at him, seeing the "ancient entity" he truly was once again. The comedic mask was gone. He looked at the circle with a hunger that matched Grayson’s.

In the circle, Grayson didn’t change form. He didn’t sprout wings or grow claws like Vane. Instead, the air around him began to darken. It looked like smoke, but it moved like liquid, swirling around his feet and rising up his arms.

Vane lunged. He moved faster than Mailah’s eyes could follow, a streak of black. He struck Grayson’s chest, but instead of the sound of an impact, there was a dull thud, like a stone falling into deep mud.

Grayson didn’t move. He caught Vane’s wrists, his fingers sinking into the other demon’s flesh.

"Is that the best the ’new era’ has to offer?" Grayson asked.

Vane screamed—a high, piercing sound that shattered several crystal glasses on the nearby tables. He tried to pull away, but Grayson was an anchor. The dark smoke around Grayson began to flow into Vane, entering his nose, his mouth, and the pores of his skin.

It wasn’t a fight; it was an extraction.

Mailah watched, horrified. She saw the light in Vane’s eyes start to dim. The arrogant demon was literally being hollowed out. Grayson’s eyes, meanwhile, were turning a brilliant, terrifying black.

"He’s taking his power," Lucson whispered from behind Mailah. She hadn’t even noticed him move closer. "The seat isn’t just a chair. It’s a reservoir of the collective energy of the exiled. To take the seat, you must consume the previous holder’s claim."

"It’s murder," Mailah said, her voice hollow.

"It’s survival," Lucson countered.

In the circle, Grayson let out a low growl. He twisted Vane’s arms, and with a sickening crack, the demon collapsed. Vane didn’t die—not exactly—but he looked like a deflated balloon, his skin gray and his eyes vacant. He had been "unmade."

Grayson stood over him, his presence now so massive that even the High King looked impressed. The smoke retreated, sinking back into Grayson’s skin, leaving him looking more powerful, more vibrant, and more terrifying than Mailah had ever seen him.

He turned to the King and bowed—not as a servant, but as a peer.

"The seat is mine," Grayson said.

The High King stood, his cloak billowing. "The House of Ashford is restored. Lord Grayson, take your place."

The room erupted. Not in applause, but in a strange, rhythmic stamping of feet that sounded like a war drum. The demons were acknowledging a new apex predator.

Grayson walked out of the circle. He didn’t go to the King’s table. He didn’t go to his brothers. He walked straight to Mailah.

His eyes were still black but a silver color was swirling with the power he had just stolen. He reached out to touch her face, but Mailah flinched away.

"Don’t," she said, her voice cold. "Don’t touch me with those hands."

Grayson’s hand paused in mid-air. The silver light in his eyes flickered, and for a second, a shadow of the "old" Grayson—the one who would have been devastated by her rejection—appeared. But it was quickly suppressed by the cold logic of the demon prince.

"I did what was necessary," he said.

"You lied," she replied. "You, Carson, Lucson... all of you. You treated me like a pawn in a game I didn’t even know I was playing. You think because you ’saved’ me from a sacrifice that you planned, I should be grateful? I’m not grateful, Grayson. I’m disgusted."

Grayson stepped closer, ignoring her retreat until she was backed against the same pillar Carson had been leaning on. He leaned down, his scent—now sharpened by the raw power of the seat—filling her lungs.

"You claim to be my mate," he whispered, his voice a dark, possessive promise. "In this world, disgust is a luxury. You wanted to know what this Gala was for? It wasn’t for a party. It was to see who had the stomach to lead. I have the stomach. And because I do, you are now the most protected human on this planet."

"I’d rather be unprotected and free," she spat.

Grayson leaned in even closer, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "The moment you agreed to be my mate, your life belonged to the shadows. Now, you can either be a queen in this darkness, or you can be a victim. I suggest you choose the crown."

He pulled back, his eyes searching hers for a flicker of the passion that had once bound them. Mailah’s heart was racing—partly from anger, and partly from the undeniable, magnetic pull he still had over her, even now. She hated how much she still wanted him, even as she loathed what he had become.

"The night isn’t over," Grayson said, turning to his brothers. "We have a seat to secure and a king to appease. Carson, take her to the private lounge."

Carson gave a mock salute, though his eyes remained sharp. "You got it, Boss. Come on, Duchess. Let’s go find some wine that isn’t spiked."

Mailah looked at Grayson one last time. He looked like a god of the underworld, beautiful and terrible. She realized then that the "Grayson" she loved wasn’t gone—he was just buried under layers of ancient, ruthless power.

She turned and followed Carson, her mind spinning. She had the ring. She had her anger. And as she looked back at the ballroom full of monsters.

What else had the brothers failed to mention about the Gala?

Mailah gripped her ring. She didn’t know who to trust, but she knew one thing: she wasn’t going to be anyone’s sacrifice.

Carson didn’t lead her toward the main exit. Instead, he steered her toward a set of heavy, black doors that seemed to swallow the light of the ballroom. Behind them, the sounds of the rhythmic stamping faded into a low, vibrating hum that Mailah felt more in her teeth than her ears.

"You can let go now," Mailah snapped, wrenching her arm from Carson’s grip the second the doors hissed shut behind them.

The private lounge was a sharp contrast to the chaotic, predatory energy of the ballroom. The walls were transparent, looking out over a jagged mountain range. Blue lightning danced across a bruised sky, illuminating the peaks in flashes of violent color.

Carson didn’t snap back at her. He didn’t even make a joke. He walked over to a sideboard carved from a single piece of white bone and poured two glasses of a liquid that looked like liquid gold.

"Drink this," he said, holding one out. "It’s not spiked. It’s just... elixir. It’ll stop your heart from trying to jump out of your chest."

Mailah stared at the glass, then at him. "Why should I trust anything you say? You let me walk in there like a lamb to the slaughter. You knew Grayson was going to do that. You knew he was going to drain that man on the balcony, and you knew he was going to challenge Vane."

Carson sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of centuries. He leaned against the bone-sideboard, his blue silk suit reflecting the strange lightning outside. "We didn’t ’let’ you do anything, Mailah. We followed a script that was written before you were even born. Grayson needed to claim a seat the moment he was exiled. He’d been refusing to claim one for three centuries, but now, he’s different. But you’re still his, right?"

"I’m not his property!" Mailah yelled, her voice echoing in the glass room.

"In this world, you are," Carson said, his voice flat and devoid of its usual humor.

Mailah felt a cold shiver. She looked out at the lightning. This wasn’t her world. This was a place where "landmines" wore silk dresses and "victory" tasted like someone else’s soul.

"And what was the Gala really for?" she asked, her voice smaller now. "What is ’the harvest’?"

Before Carson could answer, the doors slid open. Lucson and Mason walked in, followed by Ravenson. They looked like they had just finished a business meeting rather than a blood-sport tournament.

"The Harvest," Lucson said, picking up the conversation as if he’d been listening through the walls, "is the reason we are allowed to exist on Earth at all. Every hundred years, the Exiled must gather. We provide a Tithe of energy to the High King. In exchange, he maintains the veil that keeps the human world and us separate. If the Tithe isn’t met, the veil thins. Monsters start leaking into your cities."

Mason crossed his arms, his massive frame blocking out half the starlight. "Grayson usually abstains. He’s spent the last three centuries being a ’good man.’ But the King was bound to grow impatient. He wanted all the Ashfords back in the fold. If Grayson hadn’t taken Vane’s seat tonight, the King would have taken you as the Tithe to punish him."

Mailah looked from one brother to the other. They were all so calm.

So logical. It was terrifying.

"But don’t go thinking he’s a hero just yet. He enjoyed that fight. The pre-exile Grayson... he likes the taste of power. And right now, he’s drunk on it," Ravenson muttered, leaning against the far wall.