Chapter 22 – 22: The Thorn

Mailah didn’t sleep well.

It wasn’t the memory of the gala or even the heat of Grayson’s kiss that kept her awake. It was Mrs. Baker’s final words before she retreated down the hall, her expression unusually grim.

“Your mother-in-law is coming for breakfast.”

Mailah turned on her side and stared at the ceiling of the Ashford master bedroom, its crown molding illuminated by the moonlight that filtered through the sheer curtains. A chill ran through her that had nothing to do with the night air.

Grayson’s mother.

The woman Mrs. Baker spoke of like she was both royalty and executioner.

After a few sleepless hours, Mailah slipped out of bed and padded barefoot to the shelf of journals she’d organized in the corner of her dressing room. She needed help, and there was only one person who could offer it: her sister.

Lailah.

Her fingers flipped quickly through leather-bound spines until she found the ones labeled in neat handwriting with the years of her sister’s early married life. She scanned entries feverishly.

“Tea with the Dowager Queen again today. I swear she can make my tea taste like poison just by looking at it.”

“Grayson’s mother thinks I should wear pearls to bed. ‘A woman must always look her best, even in sleep,’ she said. I think I lost a little bit of my soul that day.”

“I asked her to call me by my name, and she said, ‘Lailah sounds too soft for a woman in your position.’ What does that even mean?”

“She hates when I butter the entire slice of toast. She says it’s ‘uncouth.'”

But even through the snide observations and frustration, one thing stood out—Lailah never talked back. Not once. She endured, rolled her eyes in the pages, but in person? She held her tongue. With precision.

Mailah groaned. This wasn’t just a hard woman. This was a soap-opera matriarch come to life.

She read on, absorbing not just Lailah’s stories but her tone. Lailah hadn’t cowered before the old woman, not exactly. But she didn’t fight back either. It was a performance, like everything else in this house.

By sunrise, Mailah had mapped out a strategy.

Play it cool. Be Lailah. Keep her posture perfect and her tone sugar-laced.

Breakfast was set in the sunroom.

A cathedral of glass and morning light, with creeping ivy casting dappled shadows on the floor. The table was a perfectly arranged battleground—fine china, polished silverware, freshly cut hydrangeas. An army of croissants waited on delicate plates, along with fresh fruit and linen napkins folded into elegant fans.

Mailah was already seated, nerves carefully tucked under a soft blue silk blouse and tailored trousers that hugged her just enough to say: I am both grace and steel.

Grayson arrived before his mother did.

He looked devastatingly handsome, of course—clean-shaven, crisp white shirt and jeans, every detail perfect. But what startled her more was that when he saw her sitting there, his gaze softened. The lines at his jaw eased.

“Good morning,” he said as he poured himself coffee. “You slept?”

She blinked. “Barely.”

He sat beside her instead of across, something almost conspiratorial in the choice.

“Don’t worry too much,” he offered, without looking at her.

Mailah gave him a sidelong glance. “What do you mean?”

His lips twitched. “About mother.”

She was about to ask something else when the soft click of heels against the marble silenced everything.

Grayson’s posture straightened.

Mailah sat up like someone had pulled a string through her spine.

Then, there she was.

Vivienne Ashford.

Regal, silver-haired, and dressed in a dark purple jacket with matching slacks that looked like they belonged in a private museum of couture. Her lips were painted in a deep red, not a single hair out of place, and her eyes—sharp, lighter blue, colder than her son’s—scanned the room as if already judging.

“Lailah,” she said, nodding once in greeting, her tone already loaded.

“Mother,” Mailah replied, summoning Lailah’s practiced smile.

She didn’t rise. Lailah wouldn’t have. She simply folded her napkin and gestured at the chair across from her.

“Please. We’re honored.”

Vivienne’s brow twitched, but she said nothing as she sat.

Grayson poured her tea without being asked.

The silence was surgical.

Vivienne sipped her tea, then looked directly at Mailah. “You’ve gained weight.”

Mailah didn’t flinch. “Only in the parts Grayson likes best.”

Grayson choked slightly on his croissant. His mother blinked.

The tension in the air cracked like ice.

Vivienne blinked again. “That was… bold.”

“Isn’t that what you always said I lacked?”

Vivienne’s lips pressed into a thin line, but Mailah saw something flicker behind the cold gaze. Approval? Surprise? Both?

“Perhaps you’re finally growing into yourself,” Vivienne said with a slow nod. “Marriage seems to be teaching you something after all.”

Mailah held her teacup steady. “I like to think I’m finally listening to the right teacher.”

Vivienne turned to Grayson, who was watching all of this with a glint in his eye that no one else might have noticed. She could’ve sworn he was… proud of her.

But he said nothing.

Vivienne reached for the jam, her movements precise and deliberate. “I heard about the Pemberton gala. Mrs. Pemberton called me this morning.”

Mailah’s hand tightened imperceptibly on her teacup. “Oh?”

“She said you were… radiant.” Vivienne’s tone made it sound like an accusation. “She also mentioned you spent considerable time on the terrace. Alone with my son.”

The implication hung in the air like smoke.

Grayson’s jaw tightened. “Mother—”

“I wasn’t asking you,” Vivienne cut him off without even looking at him. Her eyes remained fixed on Mailah. “I was asking your wife.”

Mailah set down her teacup with deliberate care. “The ballroom was stuffy. Fresh air seemed… necessary.”

“Necessary,” Vivienne repeated, as if tasting the word. “How interesting. In my day, we endured stuffiness for the sake of appearances.”

“Perhaps that’s why your generation always looked so uncomfortable in photographs,” Mailah replied sweetly.

Grayson’s coffee cup froze halfway to his lips.

Vivienne’s eyes narrowed, but then something unexpected happened—she laughed. A short, sharp sound like crystal breaking.

“Touché.” She spread jam on her toast with surgical precision. “Tell me, what else have you found… necessary… lately?”

The question was loaded with landmines.

Mailah leaned back in her chair, channeling every ounce of confidence she’d never had as herself. “I’ve found it necessary to stop apologizing for taking up space.”

“Interesting philosophy.” Vivienne took a delicate bite. “And what brought about this… transformation?”

Mailah felt Grayson’s eyes on her, intense and searching. She couldn’t look at him. Not now.

“Maybe I finally realized that life is too short to spend it shrinking.”

The words hung in the air, heavier than she’d intended. For a moment, something flickered across Vivienne’s face—something that looked almost like understanding.

Then it was gone.

“How profound,” Vivienne said dryly. “I suppose next you’ll be telling me you’ve taken up extreme sports.”

“Actually,” Mailah said, surprising herself, “I’ve been thinking about learning to ride.”

“Ride?” Vivienne’s eyebrows rose. “Horses?”

“Motorcycles.”

Grayson’s cup hit the saucer with a sharp clink.

Vivienne stared at her for a long moment, then turned to her son. “Grayson, your wife appears to be having some sort of midlife crisis. She’s not even forty.”

“I think it’s called finding yourself,” Mailah interjected. “Not everyone has the luxury of being born already knowing who they are.”

“Luxury?” Vivienne’s voice went dangerously quiet. “You think certainty is a luxury?”

“I think pretending to be certain when you’re not is exhausting.”

The silence stretched between them like a wire pulled taut.

Finally, Vivienne set down her napkin. “You know what I find most intriguing about this conversation, Lailah?”

“What’s that?”

“Months ago, you would have apologized three times by now. Today, you haven’t apologized once.”

Mailah’s heart hammered against her ribs. “Maybe I’m tired of being sorry for existing.”

“Or maybe,” Vivienne said, rising gracefully from her chair, “you’ve finally remembered that you’re an Ashford now. And Ashfords don’t apologize for taking what’s theirs.”

The rest of breakfast was a dance of veiled barbs and hidden meanings. Vivienne asked more about the gala. Mailah described it in flawless detail.

Vivienne commented on the “oversaturation of emerald gowns on red carpets these days,” and Mailah said she’d considered wearing black—but emerald “was Grayson’s choice.”

Grayson lifted his teacup to hide his smirk.

When the meal ended, Vivienne rose, brushed invisible crumbs from her sleeve, and turned to Mailah.

“I don’t know what’s changed in you, Lailah,” she said crisply, “but it suits you.”

Mailah blinked.

Vivienne stepped closer. “You used to wither like a leaf whenever I entered the room. Now you stare me down like you’re daring me to prune the tree.”

She leaned in. “I like this version of you. Don’t go back.”

Then she turned and walked out, her heels clicking in perfect rhythm.

Silence fell.

Mailah exhaled so hard she nearly passed out.

Grayson laughed. A quiet, amused sound.

“You’re not supposed to laugh at your wife’s impending execution,” she hissed.

“She didn’t execute you. You… impressed her.”

“She called me fat.”

“And you called her bluff.”

She turned to look at him, heat flushing her cheeks, and found him watching her with an expression she’d never seen before. Intense, yes, but there was something else there. Something that made her stomach flip.

“Was it terrible?”

“No,” he said, eyes meeting hers. “It was… entertaining.”

Their eyes met, and for a moment, the air between them crackled with something electric and terrifying.

Then Mrs. Baker appeared in the doorway, clearing her throat discreetly.

“Mr. Ashford? Your car is ready.”

Grayson didn’t move. His eyes remained fixed on Mailah’s face, something shifting in his expression.

“Tell the driver I’ll be working from home today,” he said without looking away from her.

Mrs. Baker blinked, clearly surprised. “Sir?”

“I’ll have my meetings online.”

Mailah felt a tingle run through her entire body. He was changing his plans. Right now.

Mrs. Baker nodded and disappeared, leaving them alone again.

Grayson leaned back in his chair, his gaze intense and calculating. “You said you wanted to learn to ride motorcycles.”

“I… yes.” Her voice came out breathier than she intended.

“Were you serious? Or was that just another way to shock my mother?”

The challenge in his voice made her spine straighten. “I was serious.”

“Good.” He stood slowly, his movements predatory. “Because I happen to have a bike in the garage.”

Mailah’s heart skipped. “You do?”

“I do.” His smile was dangerous. “And if you really want to learn to live dangerously, Lailah, then I’ll teach you today.”

He moved closer, bracing his hands on the table, leaning toward her until she could smell his cologne and feel the heat radiating from his body.

“But I should warn you,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper that made her skin burn. “I don’t teach anything halfway. If you get on that bike with me, you’re committing to the ride.”

The double meaning in his words wasn’t lost on her. This wasn’t just about motorcycles anymore.

“Are you challenging me?” she asked, her voice barely audible.

“I’m giving you a choice.” His eyes searched her face. “You can go back to being safe, predictable…”

He paused, his gaze dropping to her lips then back to her eyes.

“Or you can prove to me that this new version of you is real.”

The air practically hummed with charged energy. Mailah’s pulse hammered in her throat.

“What time?” she whispered.

His smile was pure temptation. “One hour. Meet me in the garage.”

He straightened, but didn’t step away. “And Lailah?”

“Yes?”

“Wear something you don’t mind getting dirty.”

Then he was gone, leaving Mailah alone with her racing heart and the terrifying realization that she was about to cross a line she could never uncross.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep