Becoming Lailah: Married to my Twin Sister's Billionaire Husband-Chapter 88: The Demon Jar

GRAYSON COULDN’T DECIDE which was more dangerous: Mailah’s smile or the way his demon side went unnervingly quiet when she leaned across the boardroom table to make her next outrageous demand.

"I’m not done with you yet," she said. Her voice was casual, but her eyes burned with challenge. "One day isn’t enough. You’re staying with me for the rest of the week."

The room had already emptied. The board members fled as soon as Grayson dismissed them, though several had lingered long enough to shoot curious glances at the woman who could tease their notoriously terrifying CEO without combusting on the spot.

Grayson growled low in his chest. "The week?"

"Yes," Mailah said firmly. "You saw what happened today. You snapped, then reined it in. That’s progress. But imagine what we could do with a few more days."

He stood, towering over her, his hands braced on the table as if he could intimidate her into backing down. "You’re playing with fire, sweetheart."

Mailah didn’t flinch. "Better me than your employees."

His jaw tightened. He hated that she was right.

"Besides," she added, standing too, smoothing her dress as if declaring the decision settled, "if you want me to let you go back to running things your way, prove to me first that you can handle it."

He narrowed his eyes. "You think you can leash a demon?"

Her lips curved. "Not a leash. Just... gentle guidance."

He snarled. But by the end of the day, she had his chauffeur reroute him to his estate again, her little victory glowing brighter than the city lights.

The next morning, Grayson walked into his office to find a glass jar sitting squarely on his desk. It glittered like a trap. A sticky note in Mailah’s handwriting read:

"The Demon Jar. Pay up when you lash out."

He stared at it.

Slowly.

Like if he glared long enough, it might catch fire and vanish. Unfortunately, it didn’t.

Mailah leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, her smile sharp as a blade. "Good morning, sunshine."

Grayson’s jaw flexed. "What," he said dangerously, "is that?"

"A system." She strolled forward, plucking the jar up and holding it aloft. Coins clinked faintly inside—because of course she had already seeded it, the smug witch. "Every time you lash out, you pay up."

The name wasn’t lost on him. The Demon Jar. As if his entire existence could be reduced to something so ridiculous. He was one of the most feared demons in existence, and she had the gall to name a glass jar after him.

"You think this is funny?" His voice rumbled low.

"A little." She tilted the jar so the light struck it just right. "Actually, a lot."

He stared at it, then at her, then back at it. "Absolutely not."

Mailah leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "What? You think demons are above consequences?"

"Demons don’t bother with petty rules."

"Funny, because yesterday you were ready to throw someone through a window over a pie chart."

He scowled. She just raised a brow.

"Here’s how it works," she explained, strolling over to pluck up the jar and shake it. "Every time you lose your temper, you put something in. Money, sure. But I prefer concessions."

His gaze sharpened. "Concessions?"

"Like... you let me pick lunch. Or I control the music in your car." She grinned wickedly. "Or maybe you agree to water the office plant."

"What plant—"

"Don’t worry about it yet."

Before he could retort, one of his assistants entered to announce a call from Tokyo. The poor man made the mistake of fumbling with the papers in his hand, and Grayson’s demon side surged forward like a storm. His voice dropped, claws itching under his skin—

"—Do you even know how to—"

"Ahem." Mailah stepped beside him and lifted the jar, expression smug.

Grayson froze, nostrils flaring. He could practically hear the grin in her silence.

After a long moment, he pulled his wallet out with murder in his eyes and dropped in a crisp hundred-dollar bill. The sound of paper sliding against glass echoed like a death knell.

The assistant looked like he had just witnessed the impossible: their CEO, the cold terror of the boardroom, submitting to... a jar.

Mailah smirked. "Good boy."

Grayson muttered, "This is extortion."

The Demon Jar became infamous by noon.

By midweek, Grayson was hanging by a thread.

Mailah knew it.

He paced like a caged beast in his office, fighting the itch of his demon instincts. She blocked the door, arms folded.

"We need a faster way to pull you back when you’re about to explode," she said. "Something subtle."

"Subtle," he repeated flatly. "When have you ever been subtle?"

She ignored that. "We’ll use code words."

He blinked at her. "You want me to stop mid-rage because you say a word?"

"Exactly."

"That’s idiotic."

"Effective," she corrected.

Grayson leaned closer, voice a dangerous purr. "What word could possibly—"

"Cupcake."

He stared. Then he laughed. A low, dark rumble that vibrated in his chest. "You’re insane."

"You agreed."

"I didn’t—"

"You just did. Cupcake is locked in. Also, ’fluffy ducklings’ is the backup."

He dragged a hand down his face. "I am not answering to fluffy ducklings."

"Oh, you will."

Later that day, during a tense confrontation with a supplier, Grayson’s demon side flared. His voice dropped, shadows licking at the edges of the room. The supplier looked ready to faint.

Mailah, seated beside him, leaned forward and chirped cheerfully, "Cupcake!"

The room went dead silent.

Grayson turned his head slowly, the gray in his eyes glowing molten, and gave her the kind of death glare that could level kingdoms.

"Cupcake," she repeated sweetly.

The fire in his chest faltered. Against every demonic instinct, he forced himself to breathe. To pull back. To rein it in.

The supplier blinked, still alive.

The staff whispered furiously in the hallway afterward. Had they really just seen their CEO tamed by baked goods?

Grayson’s only response was to mutter under his breath as they walked back to his office: "You’re playing a dangerous game, angel."

Mailah only smiled. "And winning."

On Thursday morning, Grayson found a massive potted plant sitting in the corner of his office.

It was leafy, absurdly green, and far too cheerful for the shadow-drenched space.

"What the--"

"Our stress absorber," Mailah announced proudly, marching in with a watering can.

"It’s a plant."

"It’s a guardian," she corrected. "It soaks up bad vibes. Specifically, yours."

His eyes narrowed. "You’re telling me I need... therapy by fern."

"Close. Therapy by ficus."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Take it out."

"You’re watering it."

"I don’t water things. I destroy them."

Mailah shoved the can into his hand. "Not today you don’t."

The sight of Grayson standing stiffly in his tailored suit, watering a plant while glaring daggers at her became the new office legend.

Employees passed the open door, staring in disbelief, then scattering before he could snarl.

"Smile," Mailah whispered.

"Over my dead body."

Still, he watered the plant.

By Friday, the office buzzed with rumors. Grayson’s demon temper hadn’t erupted all week—at least not fully.

The employees noticed. And they noticed her.

Over lunch, Mailah nudged him. "Remember, you still owe someone a compliment.’"

"No."

"Yes," she countered, stabbing her fork toward him. "In the next meeting, you have to give at least one compliment again. Out loud. To someone. Anyone."

He barked a laugh. "No."

"Then consider it a royal decree of kindness."

His gaze dropped to her lips. Dangerous. Distracting. "You’re going to get yourself killed one day."

"And yet," she said softly, "here I am."

The late afternoon sun slanted through the glass walls, casting golden streaks over the polished floor as Grayson stepped out of his office.

He told himself he needed coffee—what he really needed was space, a reprieve from the nagging awareness that Mailah was always in his orbit now, tugging at him in ways he couldn’t define.

The low hum of conversation reached him before he rounded the corner to the refreshments station. He slowed.

Mailah stood there with three of his employees gathered around her.

She was laughing at something one of them said, head tilted back, her expression unguarded and warm.

For a moment, she wasn’t the woman constantly challenging him, needling him, demanding he leash his demon nature—she was just... herself. And his employees, the same ones who usually scrambled out of his way like frightened mice, were smiling with her, even relaxed.

Grayson’s chest tightened.

She hadn’t been here a week, and already, she had cracked the armor of fear that surrounded him. Somehow, impossibly, she was reshaping the office in ways he never thought possible.

He reached for the coffee pot out of habit, his movements sharp and precise, but when he slipped his hand into his coat pocket, his fingers brushed something soft. He pulled it out without thinking—

The stress ball.

The ridiculous little thing Mailah had pressed on him two days ago, insisting it would help. He hadn’t even realized he still had it. Yet here it was, tucked into his pocket like it belonged there.

For a heartbeat, he simply stared at it, his reflection warped on the glass surface of the pot.

Maybe, just maybe, he thought, there was an array of options for him now. Ways to keep the rage at bay. Ways to live differently than his brothers—better.

But then he looked up.

Mailah caught his eye across the station, her lips curving in that infuriating, knowing smile. And the strangest thing happened—his demon quieted.

He returned to his office, coffee in hand, the weight of the stress ball still resting against his palm. He almost allowed himself to believe that he could change, that this tenuous balance she was giving him might hold.

Almost.

Because when he opened the door, he wasn’t alone.

An unexpected guest sat waiting in his office chair as though it belonged to them, shadows curling at their feet.

The sight wiped every trace of progress from Grayson’s chest, dousing the fragile spark Mailah had kindled.

And in an instant, he knew—everything she’d built in these few days could be ripped apart in minutes.