EPISODE 13- Let Them See
(Layla's POV)
The silence after the call stretches, thin and brittle. I held the phone to my ear, listening to the dead air, to the faint echo of his breath before he ended it. It's gone. Two words. A statement, not an apology. A correction to the universe.
My reflection in the steamy mirror is a stranger. Flushed skin, swollen lips, eyes that hold a storm. Mia's chatter from the other room about the deleted video is just background noise. A prickle of awareness slides down my spine. The video is gone, but the eyes aren't. I can feel them. In the dining hall the next morning, the weight of stares is physical pressure. Whispers don't need words. They're in the way a group of girls from Sigma Chi fall silent as I walk by with my tray. In the way Mark Evans, from my chemistry class, gives me a slow, appraising look that lingers a second too long.
Chloe slides into the seat opposite me, her expression grim. "So. The internet is scrubbed. But the grapevine is working overtime."
I poke at my eggs. "What are they saying?"
She leans in, her voice low. "That Ethan Marshall had his people erase it. That you're his new… project. That it won't last the week. Veronica Thorne's friends are particularly vicious." She nods subtly toward a table by the window. A tall, elegant blonde holds court, her laugh like polished ice. Veronica. She doesn't look at me. She doesn't have to. Her very presence is a statement. He's out of your league.
A hot spike of shame mixes with a fiercer, darker anger. A project. Is that what he's doing? Containing me? Managing me?
My phone buzzes on the table. A new message, not from him.
Unknown Number: Layla. It's Marcus. Ethan has asked me to ensure your class schedule isn't impacted by any lingering… disturbances. You have nothing to worry about.
I stare at the words. Ethan has asked me. It's protection. It feels like control. He's orchestrating my life from a distance, cleaning up his messes. Is this what it means to be with him? To have every ripple smoothed over by unseen hands?
"Who is it?" Chloe asks, reading my face.
"Nobody," I mutter, shoving the phone away. The eggs taste like ash.
The micro-aggressions are constant, a low-grade fever. In Psychology 101, I take a seat near the back. A guy I recognize from the frat party—Ethan's friend, I think—slides into the row in front of me, turns, and gives me a wink. "Heard you're a wild one, Adams." His grin is all teeth. "Guess Ethan likes to slum it occasionally."
My face burns. I say nothing. What is there to say? Denying it gives it power. Acknowledging it is worse. I just stare at my notebook until he turns around, laughing softly with his friend.
The professor drones on about cognitive dissonance. The gap between belief and behaviour. I understand it intimately now. I believe I'm strong and independent. My behaviour? I am waiting for a text from a boy who can make my problems disappear with a phone call.
He doesn't text.
The day grinds on. In the library, trying to focus on a philosophy reading, I hear my name. Two girls are hunched over a phone at a nearby carrel.
"…totally her. My cousin goes to Brighton High. She said Layla Adams was a total nobody. Scholarship case. Guess she found her meal ticket."
The words are meant to be heard. They land like little knives. I gather my books, my hands trembling, and flee to a deserted study nook on the third floor. I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching the autumn leaves swirl.
This is the cost. This is the pressure. It's not the viral video. It's the aftermath. The silent judgment. The erasure of who I was before him. I'm either his whore or his charity case. There's no room for Layla in between.
My phone finally vibrates. My heart lurches.
Ethan: Where are you?
It's not an apology. It's not an explanation. It's a demand. A summoning. The anger surges, hot and clean.
Me: Why?
The three dots appear. They pulse for a long, agonizing minute.
Ethan: I need to see you.
Simple. Direct. It bypasses all my defenses, all my reasoned anger, and speaks directly to the raw, aching want that's been humming in me since I left his bed. The part of me that doesn't care about rumors or league tables. The part that only remembers the feel of his hands, his mouth, the way he looked at me like I was the only real thing in his fabricated world.
I want to say no. I should say no.
Me: Library. Third floor. Northwest corner.
I put the phone down. The surrender terrifies me. It excites me. I am waiting for him again. And I know, with a certainty that chills and thrills me, that he will come.
*
(Ethan's POV)
The Clarendon Club smells of old money, lemon polish, and quietly simmering power. I take my seat across from my father, the heavy linen napkin feeling like a shroud in my lap. Gregory Marshall doesn't look up from his tablet, his sharp features carved from marble in the soft, diffused light.
"The Carmichael deal is closed," he says, his voice devoid of inflection. "The board was pleased with your notes on the environmental impact assessment. It showed foresight."
It's the closest I'll get to praise. Acknowledgment of a function performed correctly. "Thank you."
He sets the tablet aside, finally fixing me with those piercing eyes. They miss nothing. "The digital incident has been resolved. Marcus is efficient."
Incident. He reduces the most alive I've felt in years to a corporate hiccup. "It's handled," I say, echoing his tone.
"Good." He signals the waiter, orders for us both without consulting me. Mineral water, seared scallops, a salad he won't eat. Control in every gesture. "These… distractions are expensive. In more than just capital. They cost reputation. Focus."
I feel the ghost of her lips on mine, the desperate clutch of her hands. Distraction. "Understood."
"Veronica Thorne will be at the Gala for the Arts Center next Friday. Her father is chairing the committee." He takes a sip of water. "You will escort her. It will be photographed. The narrative needs recalibration."
Narrative recalibration. Marcus's phrase. My father's command. A cold fury settles in my gut. He wants to slot me back into the designated space next to the designated girl. Erase Layla not just from the internet, but from the story.
"And if I have other plans?" The words are out before I can stop them, quiet but clear.
His eyes flicker, just once, with something dangerous. "You don't."
The finality is absolute. This is the cage. Gilded, but a cage nonetheless. I think of Layla in the library, waiting. The fear in her eyes this morning wasn't just of the video. It was of this. Of him. Of the machine that grinds up inconvenient things.
The lunch is a pantomime. I chew, I swallow, I answer his questions about my classes with monosyllabic efficiency. Inside, the rebellion is taking solid, furious shape. He wants a narrative? I'll give him one. But it will be mine.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. A text. I don't need to look to know who it is. I can feel her, a pull as constant as gravity.
My father notices my shift in attention. "Something urgent?"
"A study group," I lie smoothly. "A chemistry lab I can't afford to miss." The irony tastes bitter. The only element I can't afford to miss is her.
He dismisses it with a nod. Academia is an acceptable excuse. Chasing a girl who threatens the family brand is not.
As the waiter clears the plates, my father leans back, steepling his fingers. "This is a critical time, Ethan. Your actions now set the trajectory. Sentiment is a luxury. One we cannot afford." His gaze is a physical weight. "Do not confuse a spark for a fire. Some things are meant to burn out quickly."
He's talking about Layla. He knows. Of course he knows. Marcus reports to him, not to me. The cleanup wasn't just for my benefit. It was to contain the threat.
The spark he's trying to snuff out is the only thing that's ever felt like a real flame.
I stand when the lunch is concluded, the perfect, obedient son. "I have to get to that lab."
"Of course." He doesn't stand. He just watches me. "Remember. The Gala. Veronica. Photographs."
I give a single, curt nod. A promise I have no intention of keeping.
The drive to campus is a blur of aggressive turns and calculated speed. The controlled fury I held in check at the club is boiling over. He thinks he can schedule my life, my relationships, like board meetings. He thinks he can extinguish her.
The library is a fortress of silence. I take the stairs two at a time, my dress shoes too loud on the marble. The northwest corner is a maze of towering bookshelves, smelling of dust and quiet desperation.
And then I see her.
Slouched in a worn armchair, a philosophy textbook open but ignored on her lap. She's staring out the window, the afternoon light painting gold in her hair. She looks small. Tired. Hunted. The rumors have teeth, and I can see the bite marks in the tense line of her shoulders.
She senses me before she sees me. Her head turns slowly. Those eyes, wide and apprehensive, find mine.
All the polished arguments, the rebellious plans, the furious defiance—it all crumbles to dust. There's only this. This magnetic, terrifying pull. This need.
I don't speak. I cross the space between us, the world narrowing to the path to her chair. The air crackles, thick with everything unsaid. Her breath catches, a soft, audible hitch in the quiet.
I stop in front of her, looking down. She doesn't look away. The fear is there, yes. But beneath it, simmering and undeniable, is the same hunger that's tearing me apart.
"Tell me to leave," I say, my voice a low rasp in the silent aisle.
She doesn't. She just stares up at me, her chest rising and falling a little faster.
It's all the permission I need. I reach down, my hand closing around the thick spine of the textbook. I pull it from her grasp and let it drop to the floor with a soft thud that echoes in the emptiness.
Her eyes go wider, darker.
I lean down, bracing my hands on the arms of her chair, caging her in. Our faces are inches apart. I can see the faint freckles across her nose, the pulse fluttering wildly in her throat.
"They're talking about you," I murmur, the words a dark caress.
She swallows. "I know."
"They're saying you're a distraction. A mistake."
A flash of pain in her eyes, quickly masked by defiance. "Are they wrong?"
My answer is to close the final distance, my mouth capturing hers in a kiss that's nothing like the one at the club. This isn't claiming. This is answering. It's desperate, searching, a silent argument against every whispered lie in that dining hall. It's heat and teeth and a low, aching groan that comes from my chest.
Her hands fly up, not to push me away, but to fist in the front of my shirt, holding on as if I'm the only solid thing in a spinning world. She kisses me back with a fury that matches my own, a sweet, angry surrender.
When I finally pull back, we're both breathless. Her lips are redder, bee-stung. Her eyes are glazed, all fear burned away by a hotter, brighter fire.
"They are wrong," I say against her mouth, the words a vow. "You are the only thing that's ever been right."
I straighten, pulling her up with me. The chair scrapes softly against the floor. She stumbles slightly, her body colliding with mine. I feel every curve, every tremor.
"Ethan…" she whispers, a question, a warning.
I don't let her finish. I take her hand, lacing my fingers through hers. "Come with me."
"Where?" Her voice is barely a breath.
"Somewhere we don't have to be a headline." My thumb strokes the back of her hand. "Somewhere we can just be."
I lead her out of the stacks, past the silent scholars, out of the library and into the fading autumn light. The eyes follow us, I know they do. Let them watch. Let them see.
He wants a narrative? Let him see this one. Let him see that his control has a crack. And her name is Layla.
—