EPISODE 22- Into The Lion's Den
ETHAN'S POV
The second I pulled out of her, the cold dread began to seep back in, threading through the post-coital warmth like poison.
Layla was curled against my side, her breathing soft and even, her skin damp and warm. She'd said yes. She'd trusted me. The triumph of that was a bright, sharp flame in my chest. But it was surrounded by the vast, chilling darkness of what I was asking her to do.
Walking into the Clarendon Club Gala with Layla on my arm wasn't just defiance. It was a declaration of total war. My father had spent two decades cultivating an image: Gregory Marshall, the unflappable titan, and his perfect, poised heir. Tomorrow night, I was going to take a sledgehammer to that image in front of the entire world that mattered to him.
He wouldn't be angry. He'd be incandescent. And his retaliation wouldn't be a quiet, financial dismantling. It would be something else. Something calculated to break me where it hurt most: her.
Layla stirred, her hand splaying across my chest. "You're thinking too loud," she mumbled sleepily.
I kissed the top of her head. "Just planning."
"Liar." She propped herself up on one elbow, her hair a glorious, sex-tousled mess around her shoulders. Her eyes, even in the dim light from the dorm window, saw right through me. "You're scared."
"Terrified," I admitted, the word strange on my tongue. I was supposed to be fearless. The golden boy. "For you."
"I'm scared for you," she countered softly. "What will he do to you?"
I gave a humorless laugh. "What can he do? Disinherit me? I've been preparing for that since I bought the penthouse. Cut off my trust fund? The crypto holdings are in a wallet he doesn't know exists. He can't touch the money I've hidden." I looked at her, tracing the line of her cheekbone. "But you… he can hurt you to hurt me. That's his play. That's always been his play."
"So we don't let him," she said, with a simple ferocity that took my breath away. "We go tomorrow. We stand together. And we show him that his threats don't work. That we're a unit. That attacking one of us is attacking both."
God, her courage. It was a stark, humbling thing. She had everything to lose, and she was willing to lose it for… for us. For a concept I was still struggling to believe in.
I pulled her down for a slow, deep kiss. It was different from the frantic, desperate one from minutes ago. This was a seal. A promise.
"We need a dress," I said against her lips when we broke apart.
She blinked. "What?"
"For the Gala. You need a dress. Something that will make Veronica Thorne look like she's wearing a sack." A fierce, protective pride surged in me. "Something that makes it clear you're not a scholarship student he can intimidate. You're the woman I choose."
A slow smile spread across her face, wicked and beautiful. "Do you have something in mind?"
"I have a personal shopper at Valentino," I said. It felt strange, using the trappings of the world I was rebelling against for this. But it was also a weapon. "We have an appointment tomorrow at noon. My treat."
She looked like she wanted to argue, but then she nodded. "Okay. Valentino it is."
We lay in silence for a while longer. The practicalities were a welcome distraction from the enormity of it all. The dress. The arrival. The sea of faces.
"Marcus will be there," I said, the thought striking me.
"Do you think he…" she trailed off.
"Knows? About the Gala plan? No. But he'll be working. Keeping the narrative." I thought of the encrypted messages, the photo. Marcus was my father's blunt instrument, but he was also a wild card. His loyalty was to the family's stability, not necessarily to Gregory personally. And he had his own grudge. "He might be a problem. Or he might… see an opportunity."
"An opportunity for what?"
"To settle a score," I said quietly, thinking of Leah. Of the hollow, shameful summer I'd spent with her. Marcus had never forgiven me for the careless way I'd treated his sister's heart. He saw me as the embodiment of the Marshall family's coldness. Showing up with Layla, genuinely in love, defying my father… it might confirm everything he hated about me. Or it might confuse him. I wasn't sure which was more dangerous.
Layla's fingers threaded through mine. "We'll handle him too. One thing at a time."
Her calm was a anchor. I clung to it.
My phone, discarded on the floor with my jeans, buzzed. Not the insistent buzz of my father. A different, softer tone. A calendar reminder.
I disentangled myself and leaned over to pick it up. The screen glowed.
Reminder: Fitting with Veronica – 2 PM. Clarendon Club Tailoring Suite.
A relic from before. From the script.
I deleted the reminder with a savage swipe. Then I opened a new text window. To the only number I had for Marcus that wasn't the burner.
I typed a simple message: Need a security detail for a plus-one at the Gala tomorrow. Discreet. Off the family books. My personal account.
I hit send. It was a test. If he ignored it or reported it to my father, I'd know where he stood. If he helped… it was a crack in my father's armor.
I dropped the phone and turned back to Layla. She was watching me, her expression unreadable.
"What was that?" she asked.
"Insurance," I said, gathering her back into my arms. "Now, we sleep. Tomorrow is a big day."
She nestled against me, and for a few precious minutes, I almost believed it would be that simple.
But as her breathing deepened into sleep, my eyes stayed open, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling of her dorm room.
The plan was set. The pieces were moving.
Tomorrow, we would walk into the lion's den.
And I could only pray I wasn't leading the one good thing in my life straight to the slaughter.
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