EPISODE 12- Protect Her
(Ethan's POV)
The phone felt like a lead weight in my hand, the text from Marcus burning into the screen with a finality that sent a cold shiver down my spine. Asset containment successful. No active traces. Narrative recalibration advised. His words were clipped, efficient, and devoid of any emotion. Just the way he'd been trained to communicate. Objective achieved. Move on to the next task. That was Marcus. Cold, calculating, and always in control.
I stood there, frozen in place, staring at the words as if they might change if I looked long enough. But they didn't. They were a stark reminder of what had just been erased—Layla. Not her name, but her. The video was gone, scrubbed from existence, but it didn't feel like a victory. It felt like a funeral. A silent, digital burial for something that had been raw, real, and mine.
My father's voice echoed in my head, a constant, unrelenting reminder of who I was supposed to be. Don't make headlines. Your image is an asset. Veronica Thorne. Each word was another brick in the invisible wall that had been built around me since birth. I'd spent my entire life learning how to live within it. How to smile for the cameras, shake the right hands, date the right girls with the right last names. I was the perfect heir. A pristine, polished shell.
And then there was Layla.
Just thinking her name sent a jolt through me, a surge of heat in the cold, empty expanse of this penthouse. She wasn't an asset. She wasn't a name to be traded or a face to be photographed. She was a wildfire. And I'd lit the match.
I closed my eyes, and I was back on that balcony. The punch-stained air, the dull thump of the bass through the wall. And her. A sudden, quiet shock in a sea of noise. I noticed her because she wasn't trying to be noticed. She was just… there. Real. A mystery I couldn't solve with a glance.
My father's warning before I left for the dance was a hand on my shoulder, heavy and final. "Have fun, son. But remember. You represent the family tonight. Don't make headlines." Gregory Marshall's version of a pep talk. This is a reminder that even my pleasure had a purpose, a brand to uphold.
I nodded then. The good son. Smiled for the cameras with my date, a girl from a suitable family whose name I've already forgotten.
And then I saw Layla slip outside. A shadow escaping the light. And something in me, something caged and furious, rattled its bars.
It would be a headline, the dutiful part of my brain whispered. The wrong kind.
But the other part, the part that's starving, that's so tired of the curated, tasteful, acceptable world… it roared to life.
The kiss wasn't a decision. It was a collapse. The first real thing I'd felt in years. And in that moment, my father's voice, his warnings, the whole damn legacy… it all turned to static. There was only her mouth under mine, soft and surprising, her hesitant hands fisting in my shirt, pulling me closer like she was just as hungry, just as lost.
Now, the static is gone. The consequences are here, clear and cold.
Marcus's "success" means the evidence is erased. But the hunger isn't. It's a physical ache, a constant hum under my skin. It's the memory of her back arching under me, the taste of her sweat, the way she whispered I'm yours like it was a confession and a plea. She saw through the shell. She wanted the broken, possessive thing underneath. And I want to give her every shattered piece.
But wanting isn't allowed. Wanting is a liability.
My phone vibrates. Not Marcus. A calendar alert.
Lunch with Gregory Marshall. 12:30 PM. The Clarendon Club.
The cage door swings open. Time to report. Time to perform.
A fresh, sharp anger cuts through the numbness. He thinks he can delete her. He thinks a lunch with Veronica will reset me, like rebooting a malfunctioning device. He doesn't understand. Layla isn't a glitch. She's the fucking operating system now. She's in the code.
I think of her this morning, wrapped in my sheet, her eyes wide with a fear she tried to hide. Fear of him. Fear of his world. And I promised. A vow made against her skin. He can't have you.
How do I protect her? Not from a video. I can buy a hundred cleanups. I can protect her from the digital world. But from the quiet, crushing pressure of my life? From the dinners and the galas and the expectation that I will eventually marry a Veronica Thorne? From the slow, suffocating death of becoming Gregory Marshall?
The conflict isn't just in my head. It's in my blood. The legacy is a chain, but it's my chain. I was born to wear it. The power, the money, the name—it's a part of me. It's the tool I'd need to truly shield her from anything. But using it means accepting its rules. And its first rule is: she doesn't belong.
I run a hand through my hair, gripping hard at the roots. The pain is clarifying.
Fuck the rules.
The thought is quiet. Absolute.
I won't parade Veronica. I won't pretend Layla doesn't exist. I'll sit through my father's lunch. I'll nod at his strategies. I'll play the part. But it's a lie. A new, secret rebellion.
The legacy expects a king. It expects cold control. But what if the king wants something else? What if the real power isn't in the crown, but in the choice to walk away from it? Or… to bend it to my will.
To use the Marshall empire not just as a cage, but as a fortress. Her fortress.
The idea takes root, dark and thrilling. It's not about choosing between my world and her. It's about forging a new one. Mine. Ours. It would be the hardest thing I've ever done. A silent war against the only man who's ever held any power over me.
But for her…
My phone rings, shattering the tense silence. The caller ID isn't Marcus. It isn't my father.
It's her.
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