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Episode 4: Shadows Converge
Tuesday morning dawned over Riverside High with whispers still thick in the air—like glitter that refused to fade. Prom Night was over, yet its glow—and its gossip—lingered in every hallway corner.
Layla Wellington felt the attention before she heard it: the weight of eyes, the flutter of voices that hushed the moment she passed. Her braids caught the hallway light, glimmering like quiet armor. Behind every smile was a murmur—her name, Ethan's name, and the unending talk of that dance, that moment, that look.
She'd woken early, determined to meet the new week with calm. At breakfast, her mother had teased, "Our Miss Prom Queen—try not to forget your books while you're busy being famous."
Layla had laughed, but deep down, she knew—her mother was right. Prom might have ended, but its ripple effect was just beginning.
In Advanced Literature, the teacher's lecture on Postmodern Narratives faded into background noise. Layla's pen moved absentmindedly, sketching the shape of the Prom stage instead of taking notes. Her mind replayed the memory of Ethan's hand at her waist—steadying her when she almost tripped. It had been such a small gesture, yet it lingered like a secret.
When the bell rang, her phone vibrated.
> Ethan: "Café Nova. 5 PM. Need to sync."
Layla: "Confirmed. Don't be late."
Her heart fluttered, and she told herself it was just about work.
By lunch, #LaylaEthanPromCouple was trending locally. Someone had posted a slow-motion clip of their dance—Ethan spinning her beneath the lights, eyes locked like something cinematic. Comments flooded in:
> "They're perfect together."
"Tiffany Larson's not done yet."
That last one hit a nerve.
Tiffany.
Layla didn't even need to scroll far to find her latest move. Tiffany had weaponized social media with precision. Her newest tweet was short, sharp, and cryptic:
> "Prom alliances hide truths. Follow #RiversideUndercurrents."
Within hours, the hashtag was everywhere—gossip threads, group chats, even class discussions. "She's hinting at a scandal," someone wrote in the Cyber Club group chat. "It's about Ethan, obviously."
Layla tried to ignore it, but the unease tightened like a knot. She wasn't sure if she was more upset about the rumor—or how easily it got under her skin.
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Across town, Ethan Marshall sat in a glass-walled conference room at the Riverside Tech Innovation Hub. A presentation glowed on the screen behind him—his proposal for a student-led app incubator. Alumni investors nodded approvingly. But even as he spoke, part of his mind drifted elsewhere—to silver dresses, braided hair, and eyes that saw more than most.
He'd heard the whispers too. Tiffany's tweet. The old photos. The way gossip had a life of its own. He couldn't stop it—but he could control how it reached Layla.
When the meeting ended, he sent one last text: "On my way."
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Café Nova was alive with its usual rhythm—soft indie music, espresso steam, and the hum of conversation.
Layla sat by the window, a caramel latte cradled in her hands. The golden light framed her in a way that made Ethan pause when he walked in. She glanced up and smiled.
"You're early," she said.
"You're beautiful," he replied before catching himself. "I mean—punctual. That too."
She laughed softly, breaking the tension. "So, what's the agenda?"
He sat opposite her, sliding a tablet across the table. "The investors liked my pitch. They want me to expand it—with a creative partner. I suggested you."
Layla arched a brow. "Was that business-smart or personal-bold?"
Ethan met her gaze without flinching. "Both."
Her pulse stumbled, but she masked it with a sip of latte. "Then let's discuss the logistics. Who's backing the idea?"
"Olivia Reyes," he said. "Riverside alum. Tech investor. Brilliant. Intimidating."
Layla smirked. "So I've heard."
Before the moment could settle, Madeline burst into the café, phone clutched in hand, face pale. "You need to see this—now."
Layla's stomach sank. "What is it?"
Madeline turned the screen toward them. Old photos. Grainy, but unmistakable—Ethan at a university party, his arm draped around a blonde girl.
> Some people forget their history.
#RiversideUndercurrents
Ethan's expression hardened. "Naomi," he said under his breath. "That was years ago. We were friends. That's it."
Layla said nothing. Her silence said everything.
"I should've told you," Ethan admitted finally, his voice low. "I didn't think it mattered anymore."
Layla's eyes met his. "It's not the past that worries me. It's the parts you choose to hide."
He nodded, guilt flickering across his face. "No more silence. I promise."
His phone buzzed again—Olivia Reyes.
He excused himself and stepped outside. Through the window, Layla watched his posture tighten as he answered.
> Olivia: "Ethan. I've reviewed your proposal. Let's meet tomorrow. Bring Layla Wellington—if she's as valuable as you claim."
Ethan: "She's worth more than a strategy, Olivia."
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The next day, Olivia's penthouse was the embodiment of power—glass, steel, and skyline views that screamed influence.
Olivia greeted them in a tailored ivory suit, every movement precise. "Ethan. Still ambitious, I see. And you must be Layla Wellington. The Prom Night visionary."
Layla smiled politely. "Creativity doesn't end after high school, Ms. Reyes."
Olivia's lips curved. "Good. I like people who think beyond limits."
For an hour, they discussed design frameworks, market projections, and branding. Olivia's tone was smooth, but her eyes betrayed something sharper—an interest not entirely professional.
"Partnerships," Olivia said at last, "require trust. And transparency." Her gaze lingered deliberately on their joined hands resting beneath the table. "Make sure yours holds."
Layla straightened slightly. "It will."
When they left, Olivia's parting words followed them: "Oh—and tell Tiffany Larson to stop stirring the internet. Investors hate drama."
Layla smiled thinly. "We'll handle it."
Outside, as the elevator doors closed, Layla's phone buzzed.
> Unknown: "Don't trust Olivia. And watch Ethan. Not all loyalty looks like love."
Her pulse skipped. She pocketed the phone before Ethan could notice. "Just a spam text," she said quickly when he asked.
But it didn't feel like spam.
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That night, on the drive home, the silence between them felt heavier than usual.
"You've been quiet," Ethan said finally.
Layla stared out the window. "I'm thinking about how everything's changing. Prom, the project, Tiffany, Olivia… It's too much at once."
Ethan reached for her hand. "Then we slow it down. Together."
She turned to him. "Promise me something, Ethan. No more half-truths. If I'm going to stand beside you, I need to see the whole picture."
He pulled into her driveway and parked. The engine idled for a moment before he spoke. "You will. That's a promise."
Their eyes held—warm, uncertain, charged.
Layla's hand lingered on the door handle. "Goodnight, Ethan."
"Night, Layla."
She stepped out, the cool air brushing against her skin as she walked toward the gate. Behind her, Ethan stayed in the car, his expression unreadable. His phone buzzed again.
> Unknown: "You can't protect her from everything, Ethan. Some truths always surface."
He stared at the message for a long moment before the screen dimmed.
Inside her room, Layla hung her silver Prom dress back in the closet. Its shimmer caught the lamplight—an echo of a night that once felt pure.
Now, the same light looked colder.
Whispers had become shadows.
And shadows were beginning to converge.
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