Mailah had no idea what to expect from Grayson that night.
By the time they arrived, her head was pounding.
She blamed the lights, the pressure, the adrenaline crash. A tension headache, maybe. She took a Tylenol with lukewarm water, ignored the weird chills licking her spine, and pushed past it.
Grayson had disappeared, presumably swallowed by his study in the library. The massive wooden door had always given her haunted mansion vibes. She never approached it, not even to knock. The man lived in mystery, and she wasn't about to interrupt him in his natural habitat.
So instead, she drifted to the room she'd started using for painting—though calling what she did "painting" was generous. It was more like "therapeutic brush squiggles."
The light was soft and golden, streaming through the French windows. She brought her sketchpad with her and a thick wool blanket, thinking maybe she'd doodle or brainstorm. But even the thought of mixing paints made her stomach churn. The headache hadn't gone, and now a dull ache was blooming behind her eyes.
"Ugh," she muttered, curling up on the couch with a book she wouldn't remember reading.
One minute she was blinking at the words on the page—and the next, she felt like she was floating.
Warm.
Weightless.
And then she heard the voice. Deep. Quiet. Familiar.
"Lailah."
Her eyes fluttered open.
Grayson.
She blinked up at him, her cheek pressed against his chest. He was carrying her, effortlessly, as though she weighed nothing at all.
For a moment she thought she was hallucinating. But no—his jaw was tight, his brows drawn low. His eyes scanned her face like they were trying to read vitals.
She groaned. "Did I fall asleep in the paint room?"
"You have a fever," he said, calm but clipped. "You're burning up."
"I'm fine," she croaked, very un-fine.
"You're shivering," he said, pushing open the door to the master's bedroom—well, her room, really—and setting her down carefully on the bed. "Your skin's like fire."
"I just need... more Tylenol," she muttered.
He ignored her. "You need rest."
She tried to sit up and immediately got dizzy.
Grayson's hand pressed gently to her shoulder. "Stop fighting me."
"But I should have dinner—"
He shot her a look that silenced her. "Dinner can wait. Your health can't."
She blinked up at him, disoriented but trying to piece it together. "You came looking for me?"
His eyes flicked away for the briefest second. "You didn't show up for dinner. And I noticed the security footage had you entering the sunroom but not leaving."
"You... checked the security cameras?"
"I thought maybe you fell asleep while trying to poison that basil plant."
Despite everything, she laughed. Weakly, but still.
Grayson moved efficiently. He pulled the blanket over her legs, adjusted the pillow beneath her head, and set a glass of water on the nightstand.
"I'm not helpless, you know," she said softly.
"I didn't say you were."
"But you're acting like..." She trailed off as he sat in the couch by the window, watching her with an unreadable expression.
"Acting like what?"
"Like you care."
His eyes didn't change. "You're my wife. I take care of what's mine."
Something about the way he said it made her skin prickle. Not in fear—but in heat.
"That's... very billionaire of you."
One side of his mouth twitched. "And you're very feverish."
She curled tighter into the blanket, then peeked over at him. "Are you just going to sit there and watch me sleep?"
"Yes."
"Oh."
The silence stretched.
"Don't you have empire-building to do?" she mumbled.
"Funny thing," he murmured, "empires don't collapse if I take one night off."
She felt her heart thud at that. Because it wasn't the words—it was how he said them. Like she mattered more than a boardroom. More than his reputation.
She shouldn't read into it. She really shouldn't. But she was tired. And warm. And sick. And Grayson Ashford was sitting across from her like some tuxedo-clad storm cloud trying to play nurse.
"You're being suspiciously nice," she whispered.
"I can be nice."
"To your enemies. Maybe. Just before you destroy them."
He gave her a long look. "You're not my enemy, Lailah."
That stopped her cold.
She wanted to ask—Then what am I? But the question caught in her throat.
He said nothing more, simply turning on his heel and heading into the en suite bathroom.
A minute later, he returned with a basin of water and a towel draped over his shoulder. She blinked at the sight of him rolling up his sleeves, setting the basin on the nightstand, and retrieving the first aid kit from the closet.
"What are you doing?" she asked, voice rasping.
"Helping you lower the fever," he replied matter-of-factly. He took a new thermometer and gently placed it under her tongue.
When it beeped, he read the screen. "102.4."
Yikes," she croaked.
He pulled out a cooling pad and gently pressed it to her forehead.
She sighed at the touch. "I can do that myself, you know."
He gave her a cool, unreadable look. "You're half-delirious. Sit back."
Then he reached for the towel, dipped it in the lukewarm water, and wrung it out.
"What are you—" she began.
He didn't answer. He pulled down the blanket and dabbed the towel gently along her collarbone.
She tensed. "Grayson..."
"You're overheated," he said quietly, his eyes never meeting hers. "I'm helping. Don't read into it."
But how could she not, when his fingers brushed against her skin, when the lukewarm water sent tingles across every nerve, when his touch felt more intimate than a thousand kisses?
His jaw was tight as he dabbed under her throat, down her arm, just above the hem of her sleeve. He paused, as if waging some war with himself.
"Lift your arm," he said.
She hesitated.
"Lailah." His voice was low. Commanding. "Please."
She obeyed.
The towel swept across the inside of her arm. He didn't linger, didn't smirk or tease. And somehow that restraint only made the moment hotter.
His hand hovered briefly above her stomach. "I need to—"
"I can do that part," she said quickly, cheeks flushed.
He straightened, returning the towel to the basin with clinical precision.
But when she looked at him, his eyes were darker. Stormier.
"Take another Tylenol," he said. His voice was controlled, but there was something simmering underneath.
She took it with trembling fingers, not sure if the shaking was from fever or something else.
"Thank you," she murmured.
Grayson gave a curt nod. "Get some sleep."
He goes back to sit on the couch.
They stayed like that for a long time. She drifted in and out, each time opening her eyes to find him exactly where he was before. Still. Quiet. Watching her like a hawk.
She woke up properly hours later.
Her fever had broken. She felt sticky and foggy, but no longer like she was on fire.
She also realized she was no longer alone in the bed.
Grayson was lying on top of the covers beside her, still in his dress shirt and slacks, his tie off and his sleeves rolled to his elbows. He had one arm bent beneath his head, the other resting between them.
His breathing was slow and steady. Asleep.
Mailah blinked in the low light, unsure if she was still dreaming. Grayson Ashford, her cold, distant fake husband, had fallen asleep beside her.
The urge to poke him was strong.
Instead, she reached for the glass of water on the nightstand—and nearly knocked it over.
He stirred. Eyes opened.
They locked on hers.
For a heartbeat, neither moved.
Then his gaze dropped to her lips.
Then her throat.
Then the slip of skin above her collarbone.
"You're awake," he said, voice gravelly from sleep.
"So are you."
He didn't move. "You're better."
She nodded. "Thanks to you."
He stared at her for a long time.
His hand moved—just slightly—and brushed against hers beneath the blanket.
Her breath caught.
"Grayson..."
He shifted closer. Barely an inch. But the temperature in the room spiked ten degrees.
"You don't make things easy," he murmured.
"Neither do you."
His eyes dropped to her mouth again.
Just when she thought he might kiss her, might finally—finally—give in to whatever it was simmering between them...
His phone rang.
They both flinched.
He sat up, reaching for his phone on the nightstand.
"It's Evelyn," he said, standing and straightening his shirt.
She blinked at him, dazed. "Oh."
He walked to the door, pausing just before he opened it.
"We'll finish this later," he said, not looking back.
Then he was gone.
Mailah stared at the empty space beside her.
Finish what, she wanted to shout. But all she could do was lie back and whisper, "You absolute tease."
Outside her room, down the hallway, Grayson's voice was cool and clipped as he answered Evelyn's call.
'Halt the guestings, ' he said, his tone leaving no room for debate. And before Evelyn could start pushing back, he added, "Photo ops will suffice for now."
He ended the call and, for the first time that night, released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.