Chapter 6 – 6: The Lies

The silence in the room had weight to it—the kind that pressed against your chest and made breathing feel like a conscious effort. Fifteen pairs of perfectly mascara’d eyes stared at Mailah with the expectation of someone about to witness magic. She could practically hear the collective intake of breath, the rustle of designer fabrics as they leaned forward in anticipation.

Underwater yoga. What fresh hell is this?

Mailah’s mind raced like a hamster on espresso. She could feel sweat beginning to bead at her hairline despite the room’s arctic air conditioning. The sapphire silk that had made her feel so confident this morning now felt like a spotlight, drawing attention to every micro-expression of panic that threatened to cross her face.

“Well,” she began, her voice sounding foreign to her own ears, “the key to underwater yoga is…”

Think, Mailah. What would rich people find profound about doing yoga underwater?

“…finding your inner buoyancy.”

The women nodded like she’d just shared the secret to eternal youth. Encouraged by their rapt attention, Mailah’s survival instincts kicked into overdrive.

“You see, when you’re submerged, you have to trust your body’s natural ability to float while maintaining spiritual alignment.” She gestured gracefully, hoping it looked like she was demonstrating some ancient wisdom rather than flailing internally. “The water becomes your meditation partner.”

“Brilliant!” gasped a redhead with cheekbones that could cut glass. “But how did you manage the breathing techniques?”

Breathing. Underwater. Right.

“Ah, that’s where the synchronized breathing comes in,” Mailah said, her confidence growing as she watched their eager faces. “We used… special breathing apparatus. Very advanced. The participants would take deep breaths at the surface, then descend for short meditative poses before returning to breathe again. It created this beautiful rhythm—like a dance between the conscious and unconscious mind.”

She was making it up as she went along, but something about the way she said it made it sound almost… plausible? The women were hanging on every word like she was sharing state secrets.

“And the mermaid instructor?” asked Patricia, clutching her pearls like they were prayer beads.

“Oh, she was magnificent,” Mailah said, warming to her theme. “Her tail was custom-made, and she could hold her breath for nearly three minutes. She guided the participants through underwater warrior poses and floating lotus positions. The children watching from above were absolutely mesmerized.”

This was either going brilliantly or she was about to be exposed as the world’s most elaborate fraud. But the women were nodding and murmuring appreciatively, so she pressed on.

“The real magic happened when we synchronized the underwater movements with the surface breathing. It created this… this communal energy that was simply transcendent.”

Dear God, I’m starting to believe my own lies.

“We absolutely must recreate this!” declared a brunette whose handbag probably cost more than Mailah’s entire previous wardrobe. “The wellness community would be beside themselves!”

“Actually,” Mailah said, a new idea forming, “I was thinking we might evolve the concept this year. Perhaps… aerial yoga?”

The collective gasp was audible. She had their attention now like a master puppeteer.

“Imagine,” she continued, gesturing toward the ceiling, “silk hammocks suspended over the pool. Participants would perform yoga poses in the air, with the water below creating this sense of fluid possibility. We could have synchronized swimmers below creating patterns while the aerial yogis flow above. It would be like… like performance art meets philanthropy.”

The room erupted in excited chatter. Patricia was frantically taking notes on her gold-plated tablet while others pulled out their phones to presumably start researching aerial yoga instructors and silk hammock suppliers.

“Lailah, you’re a visionary,” breathed the redhead. “How do you come up with these ideas?”

Pure, unadulterated panic, apparently.

“I just try to think outside the box,” Mailah replied with what she hoped was mysterious confidence. “Children in hospitals need experiences that lift their spirits—literally, in this case.”

The meeting continued for another hour, with Mailah somehow managing to navigate discussions about catering (she suggested “cloud-themed refreshments” which everyone interpreted as cotton candy), entertainment (she proposed “gravity-defying face painting”), and logistics (she brilliantly deferred to “the committee’s expertise in execution”).

By the time she escaped to Lailah’s BMW, Mailah felt like she’d just performed surgery while blindfolded. Her hands were actually shaking as she started the engine.

I just committed to organizing an aerial yoga charity event. With synchronized swimmers. And cloud-themed snacks.

The drive home gave her time to process the morning’s surreal experience. She’d not only survived her first committee meeting but had apparently elevated herself to some kind of philanthropic genius. The women had parted with air kisses and promises to “make this the most magical event yet.”

Lailah, what the hell kind of life were you living?

When she pulled into the estate’s circular driveway, the afternoon sun was painting everything in golden hues. The house looked like something from a fairy tale—if fairy tales involved billionaire husbands and fake identities and enough guilt to power a small city.

Inside, the silence felt different than usual. Less empty, more… expectant.

“Mrs. Ashford?”

Mailah turned to find Mrs. Baker, the butler, approaching with her usual perfect posture and knowing smile.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Ashford called. He’ll be working late tonight, but he asked me to let you know that dinner will be delivered from Chez Laurent at seven.”

Chez Laurent. Of course. Because normal people definitely have French restaurants delivering dinner on random Tuesday nights.

“That’s… lovely. Thank you.”

Mrs. Baker nodded and started to leave, then paused. “If I may say so, Ma’am, you seem different lately. More… present.”

Okay, that was the third time someone had said that word. Present. Like the old Lailah had been living her life in some kind of haze, and now everyone was noticing her sudden clarity.

“Different how?” Mailah asked, genuinely curious.

Mrs. Baker seemed to consider her words carefully. “Livelier, I suppose. More engaged with everything around you. It’s nice to see.”

After Mrs. Baker left, Mailah stood in the grand foyer feeling like she was living in someone else’s dream. The afternoon light streaming through the windows created patterns on the marble floor, and for a moment, she could almost pretend this was real. That she belonged here. That she wasn’t just playing dress-up in her dead sister’s life.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Grayson.

Hope the committee meeting went well. Looking forward to hearing about your latest philanthropic masterpiece.

Her heart did something acrobatic in her chest. Grayson had texted her. And somehow, he already knew about the meeting.

Of course, he knows. He probably knows everything that happens in this social circle.

She stared at the phone, trying to craft a response that sounded appropriately Lailah-like while not revealing that she’d just committed to an event that would require actual magic to pull off.

It went very well. I think this year’s event will be… elevated. Literally.

She hit send before she could second-guess herself. Almost immediately, her phone rang.

“Elevated?” Grayson’s voice was warm with amusement. “Should I be concerned about the insurance implications?”

The sound of his voice sent a shiver down her spine that she felt all the way to her toes. “It’s… ambitious. But manageable.”

“Hmm. That’s what you said about the underwater yoga, and I’m still getting calls from people asking how we managed to avoid drowning half the city’s socialites.”

Wait. He was involved in organizing the underwater yoga thing?

“You… helped with that?” she asked carefully.

There was a pause. “Lailah, are you feeling alright? I funded the entire event. The pool modifications alone cost more than most people’s houses.”

Oh. Oh no.

“Of course,” she said quickly. “I just meant… well, you were so hands-off with the creative aspects.”

Another pause, longer this time. “You’ve been saying that a lot lately.”

“Saying what?”

“‘Of course.’ Like you’re reminding yourself of things you should already know.”

Her blood turned to ice water. He was noticing things. Patterns. Changes in her speech, her behavior. She needed to be more careful.

“I’ve just been distracted lately,” she said, hoping her voice sounded normal. “You know how I get when I’m planning something big.”

“Right.” But something in his tone suggested he wasn’t entirely convinced. “Well, whatever you’re planning, just promise me it won’t require rebuilding the pool house again.”

“Again?”

The silence that followed felt like it lasted approximately seventeen years.

“Lailah,” Grayson’s voice was careful now, professional. “What exactly happened at that meeting today?”

I’m caught. He knows. This is it. Game over.

“Nothing unusual,” she said, but even she could hear how forced it sounded. “Just the usual committee enthusiasm for new ideas.”

“Right. Well, I should go. I have a conference call in five minutes.”

She wondered if that was his default response whenever he wanted out. “Of course. Have a good—”

But he’d already hung up.

Mailah stared at the phone, her reflection looking back at her from the black screen like an accusation. She was making mistakes. Small ones, but Grayson was clearly the kind of man who noticed everything.

How long before he figures out that his wife isn’t his wife at all?

The question hung in the air like expensive perfume—beautiful, intoxicating, and potentially deadly.

Outside, storm clouds were gathering on the horizon, and Mailah couldn’t shake the feeling that they were a perfect metaphor for her rapidly deteriorating situation.

The dining room felt cavernous when she sat down to dinner alone. The food from Chez Laurent was exquisite—delicate salmon with herbs she couldn’t pronounce, vegetables that looked like art installations, and a bottle of ridiculously expensive wine.

But every bite tasted like anxiety seasoned with impending doom.

Her phone sat silent on the table, but she kept glancing at it, expecting another text from Grayson. Something that would confirm her growing suspicion that he was beginning to suspect something was wrong.

Maybe I should just tell him the truth.

The thought was there and gone so quickly she almost missed it. But in that split second, she imagined what it would feel like to stop pretending. To be herself instead of this carefully constructed version of her dead sister.

And then what? He’d throw me out, probably have me arrested for fraud, and I’d be back to my old life faster than you can say ‘impostor.’

No. She was in too deep now. She had to see this through, at least until she figured out what she actually wanted to do with Lailah’s life.

Our life, she corrected herself. It’s my life now.

But as she sat in that enormous house, wearing her dead sister’s clothes and eating her dead sister’s food, she wondered if she’d ever stop feeling like she was living in someone else’s skin.

The storm clouds finally opened up just as she was finishing dinner, rain lashing against the windows like nature’s own accusation. She was about to head upstairs when she heard the front door open.

Her heart stopped.

He’s home early.

Footsteps in the foyer. The soft thud of a briefcase being set down. And then, cutting through the sound of rain and her own thundering pulse, Grayson’s voice calling out:

“Lailah? We need to talk.”

The four words hung in the air like a death sentence, and Mailah realized that her carefully constructed new life might be about to come crashing down around her ears.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep