EPISODE 16- He'll Purnish You
Ethan's POV
The smell of coffee and woodsmoke is the first thing that registers. The second is the weight of her across my chest, her hair fanned out like spilled ink on the pillow. Her breathing is deep, even. Peaceful.
I don't move.
For two days, this cabin has been a universe of its own. No headlines. No Gregory Marshall. No whispers. Just the crackle of the fire, the rush of the river outside, and her. Her sighs. Her taste. The way her body opens for mine like it was made for no other purpose.
The sun, higher than I'd like, cuts a bright blade across the floorboards. Reality is a slow, cold trickle into the warmth of the bed. It's Monday. We've been gone since Friday night. The digital silence from my phone, deliberately left in the glove compartment of the car, is louder than any alarm.
He'll know by now.
Not the where. But the that. That I'm gone. That I've defied him. The Gala is Friday. The clock isn't ticking; it's pounding.
Layla stirs, a soft murmur escaping her lips. Her hand, resting on my stomach, flexes. Her eyes blink open, slow and drowsy, finding mine instantly. That sleepy, unguarded smile that's become my personal religion curves her mouth.
"Morning," she whispers, her voice husky with sleep.
I brush her hair back from her face. "Morning."
She stretches against me, a feline, luxurious movement that makes my body stir in immediate, predictable response. Two days of near-constant intimacy, and the hunger hasn't dulled. It's deepened, become a constant hum in my blood. But the sun is too high. The world is waiting.
"What time is it?" she asks, nuzzling into my neck.
"Late. We should…" I can't finish the sentence. We should go back. The words taste like ash.
She goes still, hearing what I didn't say. The peace drains from her face, replaced by a quiet, grim understanding. She props herself up on an elbow, looking down at me. The morning light gilds the smooth curve of her shoulder, the faint red mark my mouth left on her collarbone last night. A brand. A claim I have no right to make, but did anyway.
"Today?" she asks.
"We have to. Missing more classes… your scholarship. It's playing with fire."
"My scholarship," she repeats, a faint, bitter twist to her lips. "Right." She sits up fully, the wool blanket pooling around her waist. Her back is to me, a landscape of smooth skin and delicate spine I've mapped with my tongue. The distance, mere inches, feels like a canyon opening.
I sit up beside her, the chill of the room hitting my skin. "Layla."
"I know," she says, cutting me off. She looks over, and her eyes are clear, resolved. "I knew this was borrowed time. I'm not an idiot, Ethan. I just…." She looks away, out the window at the sun-dappled pines. "I just wish we could burn the clock."
The raw want in her voice is a physical pull. I cup her cheek, turn her face back to mine. "This isn't over. This is a pause. Not an end."
"You can't know that." Her gaze is searching, scared. "Your father—"
"Is my problem," I say, my voice hardening. "I told you. My fight. You just have to trust me."
She leans into my touch, closing her eyes. "I do. It's the rest of it I don't trust."
The silence that follows is heavy. We get up. The mundane acts of dressing feel ceremonial, fraught. She pulls on her jeans and the soft sweater she brought. I watch the fabric slide over her skin, hiding her from me. Hiding her from them.
We pack the few things we brought in silence. She washes the coffee mugs at the pump sink, her movements careful. I bank the fire in the woodstove, killing the heart of our temporary world. The cabin returns to what it was: a beautiful, empty shell.
The walk to the car is through biting, beautiful air. I take her hand. She laces her fingers through mine, holding tight, as if the parking clearing is a precipice.
When I open the glove box, my phone blinks to life, a silent, screaming entity. Dozens of missed calls. Gregory. Marcus. Unknown numbers. A flurry of texts.
Gregory: Call me. Now.
Gregory: Your immaturity is staggering.
Marcus: Status? The Gala itinerary is pending your review with Ms. Thorne.
Unknown (likely a board member's assistant): Mr. Marshall, your father requested we confirm your attendance at the quarterly review on Tuesday.
And one, from last night, that makes my blood run cold before it boils.
Gregory: Running only confirms the weakness. It confirms her influence. You are making this easier, in a way. Come home and face the music, son. Or I will play the notes for you.
I show none of this to Layla. I just toss the phone onto the passenger seat between us after sending a single text to Marcus.
Me: Returning to campus today. Will make contact this afternoon.
The drive is a study in contrast to the one that brought us here. Then, there was reckless hope, a shared secret. Now, the road unwinds like a thread leading back to a trap. She stares out the window, her profile tense.
"What will you tell him?" she asks softly, after an hour of silence.
"The truth. That I made a choice."
"He'll punish you."
"Probably."
"He could… cut you off." She says it like she's testing the words, tasting their dread.
I glance at her. "Would that matter to you? If I wasn't Ethan Marshall, trust fund, legacy, future CEO? If I was just… Ethan?"
Her eyes snap to mine, fierce. "Don't. Don't even ask that. The money, the name… that's the cage. You are the boy I kissed on the balcony. The one who reads philosophy and built a secret cabin. That's who I'm with." She looks away, her throat working. "I'm just scared he'll try to take that boy away. Or that the fight to keep him will break him."
Her words hit me in a place I've kept armored since childhood. I reach over, my hand finding hers on her thigh, squeezing hard. "He can't."
But we both hear the doubt I don't voice.
*
Layla POV
The campus rises out of the autumn haze, a Gothic prison of expectation and eyes. As Ethan's car glides through the familiar gates, my body tightens, bracing for impact. The cocoon of the cabin is shredded by the first glimpse of the student union building.
He pulls up a block from my dorm, a tactical choice. Less visible. It feels sleazy. Necessary.
The engine idles. The silence is a living thing, thick with everything we're not saying.
"I'll call you tonight," he says, his gaze fixed straight ahead. His jaw is a hard line.
"Okay."
"Layla." He turns then, and the mask is fully in place—the cool, collected heir. But his eyes, those piercing blue eyes, are a storm. "No matter what you hear. No matter what you see. Remember this." His hand comes up, his thumb brushing my lower lip, a ghost of the kiss that started it all. "Remember us in that cabin. That's the truth. Everything else is just noise."
I nod, my throat too tight for words. I want to kiss him. I want to beg him to turn the car around. But the sun is too high. The world is here.
I get out. The door closes with a soft, final thunk. He doesn't drive away immediately. I can feel him watching me as I walk, my legs stiff, toward my building. I don't look back. If I look back, I'll run.
The dorm is a sensory assault after the quiet of the woods. Squeaking floors, slamming doors, the shriek of someone's laughter. My skin feels thin, hyper-exposed.
Chloe is in our room, headphones on, typing furiously. She yanks them off when I enter, her eyes wide.
"Oh my God. You're alive." She gets up, rushing over. "Where have you been? I was two texts away from filing a missing person report. Your mom called here three times."
"I'm fine," I say, dropping my bag. It smells like pine and woodsmoke. "I just… needed to get away."
"With him?" she hisses, lowering her voice. "Layla, are you insane? After the video? After everything? Disappearing with Ethan Marshall is like painting a target on your back!"
"I know." I sink onto my bed, suddenly exhausted. "I know, Chloe."
She sits beside me, her anger melting into concern. "What happened? Where did you go?"
I can't tell her about the cabin. It's his secret. Ours. "Just… away. Somewhere no one could find us."
She studies my face, my probably bruised lips, the peace that's already being replaced by a weary dread. "You've got it bad," she murmurs, not unkindly.
"It's not just a fling, Chlo."
"I can see that." She sighs. "Well, while you were off-grid, the rumor mill shifted. The video's gone, so now the story is that Ethan's father forced him to scrub it and that he's back with Veronica. There are… whispers that you had a nervous breakdown and went home."
A brittle laugh escapes me. "Of course there are."
My phone, dead until now, buzzes angrily as it charges on my desk. I ignore it. It's a tether to the world I don't want.
"You should call your mom," Chloe says gently. "She sounded… really worried."
That, more than anything, makes my stomach clench. My mother's worry is a cold, clinical thing. A diagnosis of a life going off-rails.
I pick up the phone. The screen floods with notifications—missed calls, texts. One from an unknown number with a local area code. Just a link. My heart stops. Not again.
With trembling fingers, I open it.
It's not a video. It's a photo.
A grainy, long-lens shot. Taken from the trees near the cabin. It's of us, two days ago. We're on the porch, wrapped in a blanket, my head on his shoulder. Our faces are blurred by distance and pixels, but it's unmistakably us. The caption, on some anonymous image-hosting site, reads: Secluded. Who's the weakness now?
The world tilts. He found us. Not my father. Someone else. Watching. Waiting.
I drop the phone like it's scalding hot.
"Layla? What's wrong?" Chloe asks, alarmed.
I can't speak. The cabin wasn't an escape. It was a stage. And we were never alone.
*
Author's POV
The room is dark, lit only by the cool glow of three monitors. On the center screen, the grainy photo of the couple on the cabin porch is pinned. On the left, a cleaned-up, enhanced close-up of the girl's face—Layla Adams, eyes closed, a small smile touching her lips. On the right, a financial ledger, complex and layered, highlighting several obscured transactions leading to a shell company, and ultimately, to a property deed in the name of a trust not listed on any Marshall family document.
Fingers, slender and precise, tap on a keyboard. The cabin photo is moved to a folder labeled "Narrative Deviations - Containment." A new folder is created: "Pressure Points."
Into it goes the enhanced photo of Layla. A scanned copy of her scholarship application, highlighting the conditional clauses. A screenshot of her mother's public social media profile, a portrait of rigid, middle-class propriety.
A second image is dragged next to Layla's: a press photo of Veronica Thorne at a charity event, polished, poised, the picture of appropriate legacy.
The cursor hovers between the two images. A low, thoughtful hum fills the quiet room. This isn't about malice. It's about balance. About correcting a story that's veering into messy, unpredictable territory. The boy has a role. The girl has a place. This… indiscretion… threatens the ecosystem.
A new browser window opens. The university's internal portal. Login credentials, not belonging to the user, are entered with practiced ease. The page loads: Communications Department, Disciplinary Review Committee.
A draft email begins to form, addressed to the committee chair.
Subject: Concerning Conduct & Scholarship Compliance - Layla Adams (Student ID #…)
The typing is swift, clinical. It cites responsible use of social media, adherence to student conduct codes that reflect on institutional reputation, the potential liability of a scholarship student involved in repeated, publicized scandals. It does not mention Ethan Marshall by name. It doesn't have to. The links are attached. The grainy photo. The deleted video thread from gossip sites. The connection is clear enough.
The email is not sent. It is saved to drafts. A potential note. One of many.
On the main monitor, a final action. A sleek, encrypted messaging window opens. A single sentence is typed and sent to a number listed as "G.M. - Primary."
The deviation has been located and documented. The leverage portfolio is prepared. Awaiting instruction on application.
The response comes almost instantly. Proceed. Calibrate.
The figure leans back in the chair, steepling fingers. On the screens, the two faces—Layla's peaceful smile, Veronica's polished grin—stare back. A story is being edited. Word by word. Pixel by pixel. And the main characters don't even know they're on the page.
The cursor moves to the draft email. A finger presses down on the mouse button, hovering over 'Send'.
—