EPISODE 23- Just Us
(Ethan's POV)
"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.
The thought was a cold stone in my gut as I lay there, listening to Layla's steady breathing. Sleep was a distant country. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the ballroom of the Clarendon Club, a glittering, gilded cage filled with sharks in tuxedos and gowns. I saw my father's face, that mask of polite disappointment hardening into something truly dangerous. I saw Veronica, her smile sharp enough to draw blood.
And I saw Layla, beautiful and brave and utterly exposed.
My phone buzzed on the floor again. A single, terse reply from Marcus.
> Details.
No acknowledgment. No refusal. Just the word. It was something. A crack. Or a trap. I typed back the time and the Valentino address for the post-fitting pickup, adding > Her safety is the only priority. I left it at that. He'd either be there or he wouldn't.
The grey light of dawn eventually seeped around the edges of Layla's cheap blinds. I carefully extracted myself from her warmth, my body protesting the movement. She murmured in her sleep, her hand reaching for the space I'd vacated. The sight of it, that unconscious need, sent a fresh wave of protective fury through me.
I dressed quietly in yesterday's clothes, feeling the grit of the long day on my skin. I needed to go. I needed to move, to do something. The waiting was a form of torture.
I scribbled a note on a page torn from her philosophy notebook. Noon. Valentino. I'll be waiting. – E. I left it on her pillow, kissed her temple where her hair fanned out, and slipped out of the dorm.
The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp grass and distant traffic. My Audi was parked a block over. I slid into the driver's seat, the familiar leather scent doing nothing to calm the riot in my head. My father's warning from a lifetime of grooming echoed. "Don't make headlines, Ethan. The wrong kind, at least. A Marshall is seen, not heard. We control the narrative."
Well, I was about to scream the narrative from the rooftops.
I drove not to my apartment, but to the one place that still felt like a secret: the penthouse. The silent, empty space was a monument to my rebellion. The glass where I'd taken Layla from behind still held the faint, ghostly smudge of her handprint. I walked to the window, staring out at the waking city.
This was what I was fighting for. Not just her. But the right to have something that was mine. Unapproved. Unvetted. Real.
My phone rang. The caller ID made my blood run cold. Gregory Marshall.
I let it ring three times, steeling myself, before I answered. "Father."
"Ethan." His voice was smooth, the epitome of calm. It was the voice he used before dismantling a competitor's board. "I trust you've had time to reflect on our discussion."
"I have."
"And?"
"And I'll see you at the Gala." I kept my tone neutral, giving nothing away.
A pause. I could almost hear him weighing my words, looking for the subtext. "Veronica is looking forward to it. The Thorne family is eager to finalize the merger discussions. Your alignment tonight will send a strong signal."
Alignment. Like I was a component in a machine.
"I'm sure it will," I said.
"Good." Another pause, longer this time. "The girl. Layla Adams. Has she accepted the opportunity in Edinburgh?"
The casual cruelty of it took my breath away. He was asking if I'd convinced her to run.
"She's considering her options," I lied, the words ash in my mouth.
"See that she does. Wisely. It would be a shame for a promising student to have her prospects… clouded." The threat was velvet-wrapped steel. "I'll have Marcus collect you and Veronica at seven. The car will be out front."
"I'll be ready," I said, and ended the call before I could say something that would tip my hand.
He thought he'd won. He thought the pressure, the bribe, the appearance of Veronica had worked. The arrogance of it was my one advantage.
The morning dragged. I showered in the penthouse, changed into fresh clothes—a simple black crewneck and dark jeans—and tried to focus. I checked the crypto wallets, the offshore accounts. My escape fund was healthy. It was enough for a life, a modest one. But was it enough to protect her from Gregory's long reach?
At 11:30, I drove to Valentino. The boutique was a temple of subdued opulence, all cream carpets and hushed voices. My personal shopper, Alain, a man of impeccable taste and absolute discretion, greeted me without a flicker of surprise. I'd texted him instructions earlier: Something unforgettable. A statement. Not a debutante.
"Mr. Marshall," Alain murmured. "The selections are ready in the VIP suite. A… diverse range, as requested."
I nodded. "She'll be here soon."
Layla arrived exactly at noon. She stepped into the boutique, and the world narrowed. She wore simple jeans and a sweater, her hair in a loose ponytail, her face free of makeup. She looked young, nervous, and so breathtakingly real amidst the artifice that my heart clenched.
Her eyes found mine, and a tentative smile touched her lips. The connection was instant, a live wire humming between us across the room.
Alain ushered us into a private suite with a velvet chaise and a trio of full-length mirrors. Several gowns hung on a polished rack, shrouded in protective cloth.
"Perhaps a glass of champagne while mademoiselle looks?" Alain suggested.
"Just water, please," Layla said, her voice quiet but steady.
When Alain left, she turned to me. "This is… intense."
"You deserve intense," I said, crossing to her. I didn't kiss her. I just took her hand, lacing our fingers together. "Pick the one that feels like a weapon. Because that's what it is."
One by one, Alain presented the gowns. A sleek black column. A daring red mermaid cut. A blush-pink tulle confection that made Layla shake her head with a small laugh. Then, the final one.
Alain unveiled it with a flourish. It was not a color, but an absence of color. A deep, liquid mercury silver, the fabric a heavy silk that seemed to drink the light. It was strapless, with a neckline that would hug her curves, and a skirt that fell in a deceptively simple, knife-pleated cascade.
"This is the one," Layla whispered, her eyes wide. She reached out, her fingers barely brushing the cool, heavy silk.
"An excellent choice," Alain said, a glint of approval in his eye. "It requires no adornment. It is the event."
An hour later, the curtain of the dressing room drew back.
I stopped breathing.
The dress was a second skin, a molten silver river poured over her. It hugged every one of her lush curves—the swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips—before falling in that sleek, perfect column to the floor. The color made her skin glow, her eyes seem darker, deeper. She looked like a goddess of vengeance and desire. She looked powerful.
She turned slightly, looking at herself in the mirror, a faint frown of disbelief on her face.
"Well?" she asked, her voice small.
I crossed the room in three strides. I didn't touch the dress. I cupped her face, forcing her to look at me in the mirror's reflection.
"You look," I said, my voice rough, "like you're about to burn that entire fucking ballroom to the ground."
A real smile, fierce and bright, broke across her face. "Good."
Alain discreetly finished the minor adjustments, pinning the hem. It would be ready by five. As we left the boutique, the afternoon sun felt different. The plan was no longer an abstract. It had a shape. It was silver and it walked beside me, her hand in mine.
We got into the Audi. The silence between us was charged, anticipatory.
"My mom called," Layla said suddenly, staring out the window. "This morning, while you were gone. I didn't answer."
The mention of her mother, of that other, stricter world she'd escaped, was a jolt. A reminder of the layers of life waiting to collapse on her.
"She'll keep calling," I said.
"I know." She sighed, a weary sound. "She wants to know about my finals. About my summer plans. She has no idea…" She trailed off, shaking her head. "I can't even imagine telling her about any of this. The Gala. You. Your father. She'd have a heart attack. Or she'd tell me to take the money and run."
"And what do you tell yourself?" I asked quietly, pulling over to a quiet curb. I needed to hear it.
She turned to me, her eyes clear and unwavering. "I tell myself that I spent my whole life following rules, living up to expectations, being the good girl. And it never made me feel alive. Not like this." She reached over, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw. "You make me feel alive, Ethan. Even when I'm terrified. So I'm not running."
I captured her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. The devotion in her words was a weight and a gift. I had no worthy response. So I showed her.
I leaned across the console and kissed her. It was a slow, deep, claiming kiss, there in the bright daylight of a side street. A promise and a preparation. My hand slid from her cheek to the base of her throat, feeling the frantic pulse there. She melted into it with a soft sigh, her fingers curling into my hair.
When we broke apart, both breathless, the world outside the car felt distant, inconsequential.
"Take me somewhere," she whispered, her lips swollen, her eyes dark. "Until the dress is ready. Just us."
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