EPISODE 21- I Belong To You
(Layla's POV)
The black sedan's interior smelled of lemon-scented cleaner and chilled, recycled air. A partition of dark glass separated me from the driver, turning the back into a silent, moving tomb. I stared at my reflection in the tinted window, watching the monolithic Marshall estate recede, its grandeur shrinking until it was just another part of the landscape, another symbol of a world that could crush you with a polite smile.
My body felt hollow. Not just empty, but scooped out. Last night's heat, the searing pleasure that had remade me molecule by molecule, was a distant dream. In its place was a cold, clinical ache. The ghost of Ethan's mouth between my legs, the stretch of him inside me, the shudder of our shared climax—they were memories that belonged to another person. A girl who believed in defiance. A girl who thought a secret penthouse was a fortress.
Gregory Marshall had shown me it was just another gilded cage.
He hadn't yelled. He hadn't even raised his voice. He'd dismantled my future with the calm precision of a surgeon removing a tumour. And Veronica… her touch on Ethan's collar, her pitying smile… that was the masterstroke. It wasn't just a threat. It was a demonstration. See how easily he falls back into line? See where he belongs?
The car slid through the imposing iron gates, and they closed silently behind us. The finality of the sound echoed in my bones.
My phone buzzed in my purse, a jarring vibration against my thigh. I didn't want to look. It would be Chloe, frantic for details after my rushed text last night saying I was staying with Ethan. Or Mia, with more warnings that were now horrifically prophetic. Or maybe… Ethan.
My heart gave a painful, traitorous lurch.
I fished the phone out. The screen glowed in the dim car.
It was from an unknown number.
A single line of text: A wise investor knows when to cut losses.
There is no photo this time. Just words. But the intent was the same. A reminder. They were watching. They knew I'd left. The message was from Gregory, or someone acting on his behalf. Of course it was. The offer was on the table, and the clock was ticking.
I dropped the phone back into my purse as if it had burned me. I wrapped my arms around myself, but the chill was internal. The rumpled clothes I wore—the same skirt, tank top, and hoodie from yesterday—felt like a costume of shame. They smelled of sex and Ethan and rebellion, and in the sterile luxury of this car, that smell felt cheap, naive.
The driver deposited me at the curb in front of my dorm. He didn't speak. he just gave a curt nod as I got out. The morning was bright, sunny, mocking. Students milled about laughing, lugging backpacks, utterly unaware of the tectonic plates that had just shifted beneath my feet.
I walked into the building, my head down. The familiar smell of cheap carpet and microwaved noodles hit me, a jarring return to normalcy. My feet carried me to my room on autopilot.
I fumbled with the key, my hands shaking. The lock clicked, and I pushed the door open.
The room was empty. Mia's side was immaculate, her designer duffel gone, probably already at some early practice. The silence was a physical weight.
I closed the door, locked it, and leaned back against the cool wood. I slid down until I was sitting on the floor, knees drawn to my chest. The events of the last eighteen hours played on a frantic, disjointed loop in my head.
Ethan's mouth on mine in the penthouse elevator, a vow.
His whispered "I need to taste you."
The mind-shattering climax against the cold glass.
The peaceful, heavy-limbed sleep in his arms.
Then the buzz of the phone.
The drive to the estate.
Gregory's icy appraisal.
The European postgraduate offer—a bribe so large it was almost a compliment.
Veronica's possessive, pitying touch.
And Ethan. Standing there. Letting her.
A hot tear spilt over, tracing a path through the dust and salt on my cheek. Then another. I didn't sob. I just sat there, silent tears streaming, as the reality settled into the hollow places.
My scholarship. My future. Professor Carter's recommendation. All of it is leverage in the hands of a man who sees people as assets and liabilities. He was right. I wasn't unassailable. One scandal, one carefully leaked photo, one whispered doubt from a respected professor about my "moral character," and it could all unravel. I'd worked too hard, clawed my way out of my own strict, suffocating home life to build something for myself, to let it be destroyed for a… what? A fling?
But it wasn't a fling. Every cell in my body screamed that it wasn't. What I felt for Ethan, what he'd shown me in that penthouse… it, was the most real thing I'd ever experienced. It was a connection that went beyond physical, a recognition of something broken and beautiful in each other.
But was it strong enough to survive a war against Gregory Marshall? A war where the weapons were my dreams, my livelihood?
My phone buzzed again, this time with a familiar ringtone. Chloe.
I let it go to voicemail. I couldn't talk to her. Not yet. Her world was simple. She'd be thrilled about the passionate night, horrified by the threats, and then she'd tell me to fight for love. She wouldn't understand the cold calculus of it. The sheer, annihilating power of the opposition.
A knock on the door made me jump.
"Layla? Are you in there?" It was Mia's voice, tense.
I wiped my face hastily, took a shuddering breath, and stood up. My legs were weak. I unlocked the door and opened it a crack.
Mia stood there, still in her workout gear, her face pale. She slipped inside quickly, closing the door behind her. Her eyes scanned me, taking in my rumpled clothes, my puffy eyes.
"You saw him," she stated flatly.
I nodded, sinking onto the edge of my bed.
"And?" she prompted, sitting next to me, her energy subdued.
"He offered me a fully-funded master's in Europe. A stipend. A clean break." The words sounded robotic.
Mia let out a low whistle. "Jesus. He's not playing."
"He showed me the alternative. He'd start with the photo from the cabin. My scholarship's moral clause. Professor Carter." My voice broke on the professor's name.
Mia was silent for a long moment. "He'll do it, Layla. He doesn't make offers he can't back up. And the photo… that proves he has people watching. It's not a bluff."
"I know."
"And Veronica Thorne was there," I added, the memory a fresh stab.
Mia's expression darkened. "Of course she was. She's the publicly acceptable outcome. Her family's money merges with his. It's a business story the society pages eat up. You… you're a human-interest scandal. A bump in the road." She put a hand on my arm. "I told you. This family… they don't get mad. They get even. And they do it without ever raising their voice."
"What do I do, Mia?" The question was a whisper.
She looked at me, her usually bright eyes full of a weary sadness. "I can't tell you that. All I can say is that I've seen what happens to people who defy Gregory. They don't just lose. They disappear. Their reputations, their connections… they evaporate. Ethan might love you. He might believe he can protect you. But he's still his father's son. And he's still trapped in that world. You saw it today."
I had. The way he froze when Veronica touched him. The hollow look in his eyes after his father left. He was fighting with his hands tied behind his back.
"He has a penthouse," I said, almost to myself. "A secret one. He bought it himself."
Mia barked a humourless laugh. "A bolt-hole. Every prisoner in that gilded zoo dreams of a bolt-hole. It doesn't change the fact that the zoo owns the key to the outer gate." She stood up. "I have to go. Practice. Just… think, Layla. Really think. Is he worth your future?"
She left, closing the door softly behind her.
Alone again, the silence felt even heavier. Mia's words echoed Gregory's, just in a different accent. Cut your losses.
I stood up, my body moving on a strange, restless energy. I needed to get out of these clothes. I needed to scrub the scent of last night of this morning, off my skin. I needed to feel clean, even if I couldn't feel whole.
I gathered a towel, my robe, and toiletries. The hallway to the communal bathroom was empty. I locked myself in a shower stall, turned the water as hot as I could stand it, and let it pound on my back.
The steam enveloped me. I squeezed my eyes shut, but behind my eyelids, I didn't see Gregory or Veronica.
I saw Ethan.
I saw the raw hunger in his eyes as he sank to his knees before me. I felt the whisper of his breath against my inner thigh. The first, the searing touch of his tongue. The helpless, animal sounds I'd made. The way my body had yielded, flowered, for him and him alone.
My hands, slick with soap, slid over my skin. Over my breasts, where his mouth had suckled. My nipples tightened instantly at the memory, a sharp, aching pulse. My touch drifted lower, over my stomach, which clenched.
I was betraying myself. I was supposed to be thinking clearly, rationally. But my body was a traitor, thrumming with a need that logic couldn't touch. The hot water beat down, and my fingers slid between my legs.
The flesh was still sensitive, swollen from his attention. A single, tentative touch sent a jolt of electricity straight to my core. A low moan escaped my lips, drowned by the spray.
This is what he did to me. This is the weapon he has that his father doesn't understand.
I leaned my forehead against the cool tile, my breath coming in short gasps. My fingers moved in a slow, circling rhythm, mimicking the perfect pressure of his tongue. Pleasure, sharp and sweet, began to coil low in my belly. My hips pushed forward into my own touch.
In my mind, it was his mouth. His hands gripping my hips, holding me still for his feast. His groans of pleasure as he tasted me. The image was so vivid that I could almost smell his sandalwood cologne in the steam.
"Ethan," I whispered, the name a prayer and a curse.
My movements quickened. The coil tightened, a spring of pure, physical need. I thought of him turning me to the window. The cold glass on my breasts. The thick, insistent pressure of him pushing into me from behind. The feeling of being utterly claimed, possessed, in the most primal way.
That was the core of it, wasn't it? With Ethan, I didn't have to be the good girl, the careful scholarship student. I could be wanton. I could be desperate. I could scream and beg and take. He didn't just allow it; he craved it. He needed my surrender as much as I needed his domination.
The realization, coupled with the building physical sensation, tipped me over the edge. My orgasm crashed through me, a silent, violent convulsion in the shower stall. My knees buckled, and I braced myself against the wall, riding out the waves, biting my lip to keep from crying out his name.
As the tremors subsided, a different kind of emptiness filled me. Not the cold hollowness from the car, but a deep, aching loneliness. A self-inflicted pleasure was a poor substitute. It was the ghost of a feast, leaving me hungrier than before.
I turned off the water, trembling. I dried myself, wrapped the robe around my clean but still-trembling body, and walked back to my room on unsteady legs.
The decision wasn't clearer. If anything, it was more muddled. My body knew what it wanted. My mind knew the cost.
I dressed in clean, soft clothes—yoga pants and an old sweatshirt. I tried to open my philosophy textbook, but the words swam on the page. Metaphysics. Ethics. What a joke. What was the ethical choice when both paths led to a kind of ruin?
The afternoon bled away into the evening. I ignored more calls from Chloe. I ignored a text from an unknown number that just said 24 hours.
The sky outside my window darkened. The dorm came alive with the sounds of evening—laughter, music, and doors slamming. It's a normal Friday night. For everyone else.
A knock sounded on my door, different from before. Sharper. More insistent.
My heart stopped. Then, it began to hammer against my ribs. I knew that knock.
I didn't move. I couldn't.
"Layla." His voice came through the door, low, strained. "Open the door. Please."
The please undid me. It was cracked and vulnerable. Not a demand. A plea.
I stood, my legs like water, and walked to the door. I unlocked it and opened it.
Ethan stood in the hallway. He looked like hell. His hair was dishevelled, his jaw tight, shadows under his brilliant blue eyes. He was still in the same dark sweater and jeans from this morning, but they looked lived in, rumpled from a day of… what?" Fighting? Planning? Spiraling?
His eyes drank me in, a desperate, hungry scan. "Can I come in?"
I stepped back wordlessly. He entered, closing the door behind him and locking it. The small room seemed to shrink with his presence. The air crackled, charged with everything unsaid.
He didn't touch me. He just stood there a few feet away, his chest rising and falling as if he'd run here.
"I've been going out of my mind," he said, his voice raw. "I called. I texted. You didn't answer."
"I needed to think," I said, my own voice thin.
"Think about what?" The question burst from him, edged with panic. "About his offer? Layla, you can't be considering it. It's a trick. A gilded cage on another continent."
"And staying is what? A war I can't win? A public dismantling of everything I've worked for?" The words came out sharper than I intended. "You saw him, Ethan. You heard him. He wasn't angry. He was disappointed. Like I was a poorly chosen stock. And he has the power to short-sell me into oblivion."
He flinched. "I won't let that happen."
"How?" I shot back, the dam breaking. "How will you stop him? You stood there this morning and let Veronica Thorne put her hands on you. You didn't move. You didn't say a word."
The accusation hung between us, brutal and true.
His face twisted. "What was I supposed to do? Shove her? Cause a scene in front of him? That's exactly what he wants! He wants me to be the unstable, emotional boy so he can step in as the calm, rational patriarch. It's a game, Layla. Every move is calculated."
"And I'm a pawn!" I cried, the tears coming back, hot and fast. "A pawn he's offering to move off the board for a king's ransom. And you… you're the king, trapped in the middle of the board, with all the moves but no way out."
He closed the distance between us in two strides. His hands came up, not to grab me, but to hover beside my face, trembling. "I am not trapped. Not with you. The penthouse… last night… that was real. That was me. Not the performance. This," he gestured between us, "this is the only real thing in my life. Don't let him make you doubt it."
His eyes were blazing, full of a conviction that was both terrifying and mesmerizing. "I have a plan."
"What plan?" I whispered, my resolve crumbling under the intensity of his gaze.
"The Gala. Tomorrow night. It's the biggest event of the social season. The press will be there. His business associates, his rivals, everyone." His words came in a rushed, urgent torrent. "He wants me to go with Veronica. To present the united front. To show that I've fallen in line."
A cold dread seeped into my stomach. "And are you?"
"No." The word was a vow. "I'm going. But I'm not going with her." His hands finally cupped my face, his thumbs stroking my cheeks. "I'm going with you."
I stared at him, stunned. "What? Ethan, he'll—"
"He'll what?" Ethan's voice dropped, becoming fierce, almost feral. "In front of everyone? In front of cameras? He can't make a scene there. He can't threaten you with a photographer snapping pictures. It would make him look weak, like he can't control his own son. It would be the headline he's spent my entire life avoiding."
The audacity of it took my breath away. It was a direct, public slap in his father's face. A declaration of war on Gregory's own battlefield.
"It's insane," I breathed.
"It's the only move he won't expect," Ethan insisted, his eyes locked on mine. "He thinks I'll cave. He thinks the pressure, the threats to you, will make me back down. He thinks I'll show up with Veronica on my arm, the good little heir. If I walk in with you… it changes everything. It makes our relationship a public fact. It forces his hand into the open. He can't quietly destroy you after that without it looking suspicious."
He was right. It was a terrifying, brilliant gambit. A high-stakes game of chicken using society's rules as the weapon.
"And what happens after?" I asked, my mind reeling. "After the Gala? He'll still be your father. He'll still have power."
"After the Gala," Ethan said, his voice softening, "we have leverage. Public opinion. Scrutiny. We take the fight out of the shadows. And we do it together." He leaned his forehead against mine. "But I need you to say yes. I need you to walk into that lion's den with me. To stand beside me and show them all that you're not afraid. That we're not afraid."
His breath was warm on my lips. The scent of him—sandalwood, stress, and that essential Ethan-ness—wrapped around me. The memory of the shower, of my own lonely climax, surged up, transforming into a desperate need for him. For the real thing. For the connection that was worth any risk.
My hands came up, gripping the soft wool of his sweater. The fear was still there, a cold knot in my gut. But it was being burned away by the heat of his determination by the fire he was reigniting in me.
"You're asking me to trust you," I murmured.
"I'm begging you to," he corrected, his lips brushing mine with the ghost of a kiss. "One night. One public stand. Then we face whatever comes next. Together."
It was the "together" that shattered my last reservation. In that penthouse, he'd offered me a space that was ours. Now, he was offering me a future that was ours, even if it was a battlefield.
I didn't answer with words.
I answered by surging up onto my toes and capturing his mouth with mine.
The kiss was not soft. It was not a vow. It was a conflagration. A release of all the fear, the anger, the longing of the day. It was teeth and tongue and desperate, hungry noise.
He groaned into my mouth, a sound of pure relief and surging desire. His arms wrapped around me, crushing me against him. I could feel the hard planes of his body, the frantic beat of his heart. My fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, deeper.
This was the answer. Not logic. Not fear. This. The atomic truth of our bodies fitting together, the chemistry that obliterated doubt.
He walked me backwards until my knees hit the edge of my bed. We broke the kiss, both gasping for air. His eyes were dark pools of need.
"Is that a yes?" he rasped.
"It's a yes," I breathed. "To the Gala. To you. To all of it."
A fierce, triumphant light flashed in his eyes. Then, it was swallowed by a deeper, more primal hunger.
"Good," he growled. "Because I need you. Right now. I've needed you every second since you walked out of that room this morning."
His hands went to the hem of my sweatshirt. In one swift motion, he pulled it over my head and tossed it aside. My tank top followed. He looked down at my breasts, heaving in the simple lace bra, and a muscle ticked in his jaw.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he whispered, his voice thick. "And you're mine."
He pushed me down onto the bed, coming over me. His mouth found mine again in a searing kiss as his hands made quick work of my yoga pants and panties, dragging them down my legs. Cool air hit my skin, followed immediately by the scorching heat of his body as he settled between my thighs.
He was still fully dressed, the rough fabric of his jeans abrading the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. The contrast was maddening. I reached for his belt buckle, my fingers fumbling.
"Let me," he said, his voice a dark promise. He reared back, kneeling between my legs, and made quick, efficient work of his belt, his button, his zipper. He shoved his jeans and boxers down just enough to free himself.
He was already fully erect, thick and straining. My core clenched in visceral anticipation.
He didn't enter me. Not yet. He leaned down, bracing himself on one arm beside my head, his other hand sliding down my body. His fingers traced the damp, aching flesh between my legs, and I cried out, arching off the bed.
"So wet," he murmured, his eyes burning into mine. "For me. Even after everything."
"Always for you," I gasped, the truth of it laid bare.
He stroked me, his touch knowing, deliberate, stoking the fire he'd lit in the shower and had never truly let die. Pleasure spiraled, tight and urgent.
"Ethan, please…"
"Please what?" he prompted, his finger circling that perfect, torturous spot.
"I need you inside me. Now."
A savage grin touched his lips. "Since you asked so nicely."
He positioned himself, the broad head of his cock nudging my entrance. He pushed forward, not in a slow, reverent slide like at the penthouse, but in one deep, claiming thrust that buried him to the hilt.
The cry that tore from my throat was one of sheer, unadulterated relief. The fullness, the rightness of it, wiped every other thought from my mind. He was here. He was in me. The world, the threats, the Gala—all of it faded to a distant hum.
He began to move.
This was not the slow, intense worship of before. This was raw, frantic, desperate coupling. It was the physical manifestation of the day's turmoil. His thrusts were deep, powerful, punishing in their intensity. The bedframe knocked against the wall with a rhythmic thump-thump-thump.
I wrapped my legs around his waist, locking my ankles, pulling him deeper with each drive. My nails scored his back through the sweater. He grunted with each impact, his breath hot against my neck.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice guttural.
I forced my eyes open, meeting his blazing blue gaze. Sweat beaded on his brow. His expression was a mask of fierce possession and agonizing need.
"This," he gritted out, pounding into me, "is real. This is us. No one takes this from us. Do you understand?"
"Yes," I moaned, the word breaking on a sob of pleasure.
"Say it."
"It's real!" I cried out, my body coiling impossibly tight. The friction, the depth, the sheer emotional catharsis of it were driving me toward the edge at a terrifying speed.
"Who do you belong to?" he demanded, his pace becoming erratic, brutal.
"You! Ethan, I belong to you!"
The declaration, screamed into the small room, was the final trigger. My orgasm exploded, a supernova that ripped through me with blinding force. I convulsed around him, my inner muscles clamping down on his cock in violent, rhythmic pulses. A raw, ragged scream was torn from my lungs.
My climax dragged him over with me. With a hoarse shout, he drove into me one final, deep time and held, his body shuddering as he spilled himself inside me. The hot, pulsing rush sent another, smaller wave of pleasure cascading through my spent body.
He collapsed on top of me, his weight a delicious anchor. Our hearts hammered against each other, a frantic, syncopated rhythm slowly calming. The only sounds were our ragged breaths and the faint knocking of the bedframe settling.
He rolled to the side, taking me with him, keeping us joined. He held me close, his face buried in my hair. His breathing gradually evened out.
In the quiet aftermath, the reality of his plan seeped back in. The Gala. The public stand. But the paralyzing fear was gone, burned away in the crucible of our joining. It was replaced by a steely resolve, forged in the heat of his body and the certainty of his touch.
We would go. We would stand together. And we would face whatever came next.
—