EPISODE 25- Trapped
(LAYLA'S POV)
The cold from the riverfront concrete had seeped into my bones, but the fire Ethan had stoked there still burned low and warm. The walk back to the Audi was silent, our hands clasped so tight my knuckles were white. The world felt sharper, the colours more vivid, as if our reckless act had scrubbed a film from my eyes.
Then he stopped. His phone glowed in his hand, and his face went ashen.
My stomach dropped. "What? What is it?"
He didn't answer. He just turned the screen toward me.
The headline was a punch to the gut. Mystery Date Revealed? The photo was grainy but unmistakable. My back, his hand on my cheek in the boutique. A "tender moment." It was intimate. It was stolen. It was out.
The air whooshed out of my lungs. "How?"
"Someone was watching. A paparazzi tipped off." His voice was flat, detached, the calculating mask slamming back into place. But I saw the muscle ticking in his jaw. "My father. Or Veronica. Or both. To force my hand, to pressure you before we even step foot in the place."
The plan. Our careful, hour-long window of defiance was evaporating before it began. We were already a spectacle. I felt naked in a way the open-air fucking hadn't achieved. This was exposure of a different, more violating kind.
"What do we do?" My voice sounded small, lost in the wind.
He looked at me, and the storm in his blue eyes was terrifying. "We do it anyway. But the script is flipped. Now, we're not making an entrance. We're walking into a media ambush. You ready for that?"
Was I? An hour ago, I'd felt powerful in silver silk. Now, the thought of flashbulbs, of a thousand eyes dissecting me, made me want to crawl into a hole. But I saw the same fear, quickly buried under fury, in him. He was asking me to stand in the crosshairs with him.
I squeezed his hand. "I'm with you."
The drive to pick up the dress was tense, silent. The bubble of 'just us' had well and truly popped. At the boutique, Alain had the gown ready, zipped into a heavy garment bag. His expression was carefully neutral, but his eyes held a new wariness. The leak had reached him, too.
"The car will be here at 6:45, mademoiselle," he said to me, handing the bag to Ethan. "A discreet service. Best of luck tonight." It sounded like a condolence.
Back at my dorm, the reality crashed down. Mia was out, thank God. I stood in the middle of our small room, clutching the garment bag like a lifeline.
"I need to shower," I said, not looking at Ethan. I needed to wash the riverfront from my skin, the feeling of being watched.
"I'll wait." He sat on the edge of my bed, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. He looked like a general whose battlefield had just been bombed.
The hot water was a shock, then a solace. I scrubbed, but the phantom sensation of the rough pillar against my back, of him moving inside me with such desperate force, wouldn't wash away. It was tangled up with the cold dread of the leaked photo. Our defiance felt raw and beautiful. Having it stolen and commodified felt vile.
I stepped out, wrapping myself in a towel. Through the foggy bathroom door, I could see his silhouette, still and brooding on my bed. My chest ached. For him. For us. For the impossible fight we'd picked.
I had to get ready.
*
Sitting at my tiny desk, staring into a lit mirror, I felt like an actor preparing for a role that might destroy them. I applied my makeup with a careful, steady hand. More than I usually wore. A defense. Eyeliner sharp enough to cut, mascara darkening my lashes into a shield. Lipstick a deep, matte crimson. Armor, I thought. Make it armor.
I stood, let the towel drop, and stepped into the delicate, lace underthings that had been provided with the gown. Then, I unzipped the garment bag.
The silver silk slithered out, cool and heavy. I stepped into it, carefully pulling it up my body. It was like being encased in liquid metal. It hugged every curve, the strapless bodice lifting and supporting my breasts, the knife-pleated skirt falling in a sleek, perfect line. I couldn't reach the zipper.
"Ethan," I called, my voice quiet.
He appeared in the doorway. He'd changed into his tuxedo while I was in the shower. The classic black and white should have looked like a costume, a uniform of his gilded prison. But on him, it was devastating. It emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, the lean line of his torso. He looked like power. Like a prince. Like my ruin.
His eyes traveled over me, from the top of my head, over the dress, down to my silver heels. The storm in his gaze calmed for a second, replaced by a stark, reverent hunger. "Jesus, Layla."
"Zip me?"
He moved behind me. His fingers were warm against the skin of my back as he found the tiny, hidden zipper. He drew it up slowly, the sound loud in the quiet room. His knuckles brushed my spine, sending a shiver through me that had nothing to do with cold. When it was done, his hands lingered on my shoulders, his thumbs making slow circles on my bare skin.
He bent his head, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. "Remember the waterfront. Remember what's yours. No one out there owns this. No one out there owns us." His voice was a low vow. "They get a picture. They get a show. They don't get the truth."
I leaned back into him, drawing strength from his solid presence at my back. For a moment, we were just two people in a small dorm room, holding onto each other before the storm.
A sharp knock on the door made us jump apart.
"Layla? Car's here!" It was Mia, her voice singsong.
The spell shattered. The battlefield called.
Ethan offered me his arm. I took it, my hand trembling slightly. He covered it with his own, steadying me.
"Ready?" he asked.
I took a deep breath, my reflection in the mirror a stranger—a fierce, silver goddess. "Ready."
We walked out together.
*
Ethan's POV
The black town car was an extension of my father's will. Marcus stood beside the open door, his expression unreadable behind aviator sunglasses, despite the evening gloom. He gave a curt nod. "Mr. Marshall. Miss Adams."
His presence was a gambit. I'd ordered him to be Layla's escape. Now, he was our chauffeur. I searched his face for any sign of which side of the razor's edge he'd chosen. Nothing.
"Marcus," I acknowledged, my voice cool. I helped Layla into the plush interior, her silver skirt a luminous pool in the dark leather. She was holding herself with a stillness I recognized—the calm before combat. I slid in beside her, my leg pressing against hers. A point of contact. A promise.
The door thudded shut, sealing us in a silent, moving vault. The partition between us and the driver's seat was up. We were alone.
The city lights streaked by, a river of gold flowing toward the heart of the beast—the Clarendon Club. My cufflinks felt like manacles. The plan was in tatters, but the core objective remained: survive. Show a united front. Get her out clean.
I felt Layla's gaze on me. I turned. In the intermittent flash of streetlights, her face was a masterpiece of composed anxiety. The crimson of her lips was a shock of defiance against the silver and the dark.
"Talk to me," she whispered. "What's the first move?"
"We let them look," I said, keeping my voice low, for her ears only. "We smile. We don't cling, but we don't separate. I'll stay at your side. If anyone approaches you, let me handle it. If they ask about the photo, you laugh. You say, 'Is privacy dead?' And you change the subject."
"And your father?"
"He'll wait. He'll want to see us squirm in the spotlight first. He'll observe from a distance. He enjoys the theatre."
She nodded, absorbing the tactics. Her intelligence, her quick study, was a turn-on more potent than any dress. My hand found hers in the shadows of the seat, lacing our fingers. Her skin was cool. I brought her knuckles to my lips, pressing a firm kiss there. Not a tender gesture. A branding.
"You are the most breathtaking thing in that room," I said, my words a raw truth. "Remember that. They're not used to seeing something real. It will frighten them."
The car slowed, joining a queue of gleaming vehicles disgorging the city's elite onto a red carpet that blazed under television lights. The murmurs of a crowd, the pop of flashbulbs, seeped through the soundproofing.
This was it.
Marcus opened the door. The noise rushed in—shouted questions, the thrum of orchestral music from inside, the brittle chatter of the crowd. The light was blinding.
I stepped out first, a conditioned reflex. I turned, offering my hand. A thousand lenses focused on the door.
Her hand slipped into mine, and she emerged.
For a split second, there was a hush. Then the cameras went into a frenzy. The silver dress did what it was meant to do—it caught every photon and threw it back, making her a walking supernova. Her hair was down now, a dark cascade over her bare shoulders. Her posture was regal, her chin lifted, the sharp makeup giving her an untouchable aura.
Christ. She's perfect.
I tucked her hand into the crook of my arm, feeling the slight tremor she couldn't fully suppress. I leaned in, my mouth close to her ear. "Eyes on me. Just me."
She looked up, and her gaze locked with mine. In the chaotic glare, it felt like a private universe. We started walking.
"Ethan! Over here! Who's your date?"
"Miss Adams! How does it feel to be thrust into the spotlight?"
"Is it serious, Ethan? What does your father say?"
The questions were darts. I kept a polite, closed-lipped smile, guiding Layla forward, ignoring the shouts. We reached the relative sanctuary of the grand foyer, a cavern of marble and crystal dripping with wealth and history. The air smelled of champagne, expensive perfume, and ambition.
I scanned the room. I saw them before they saw us.
My father stood near a towering ice sculpture, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He was speaking with Charles Thorne, Veronica's father. He hadn't looked over, but his posture—too still, too deliberately relaxed—told me he was acutely aware of our arrival. Veronica stood slightly apart, in a gown of ice-blue silk that matched her eyes. She watched us, a faint, pitying smile on her lips.
Layla's fingers tightened on my arm. She'd seen them, too.
"Breathe," I murmured. "We're here. We're together."
We were immediately engulfed. Well-wishers, curiosity-seekers, social climbers—a rotating gauntlet of faces. Layla handled it with a grace that stunned me. She smiled, gave vague, polite answers, and deftly turned probing questions about the photo into comments about the beautiful venue. Her performance was flawless. The armor was holding.
I played my part, the dutiful son with his stunning, unexpected plus-one. I introduced her, my hand a constant, possessive weight on the small of her back. Every touch was a message: Mine. Back off.
We made our way toward the main ballroom. The plan, the new plan, was to get a drink, find a semi-secluded spot to observe, and wait for my father's move. We needed to stay public, but controlled.
As we passed a dimly lit corridor leading to the terrace lounges, a hand shot out, catching my elbow. I tensed, ready to brush it off, but the grip was familiar.
Marcus. He'd slipped away from the car.
His sunglasses were gone. His eyes, hard and direct, met mine. "A word. Now."
He didn't wait for an answer. He just turned and walked a few paces down the corridor, into a shadowy alcove holding a potted fern.
I glanced at Layla. Her eyes were wide. "Stay right here. Don't move. I'll be ten seconds."
I followed Marcus. He turned, his back to the gala's glow.
"The east terrace lounge is compromised," he said, his voice a low, urgent rumble. "Your father has two of his security team posing as wait staff stationed at the service exit. They have descriptions. Of her." He jerked his chin minutely toward Layla.
My blood went cold. So my father had anticipated that route. Of course he had. He'd written the playbook I was trying to use.
"What about your orders?" I asked, my voice like flint.
A muscle in his jaw jumped. "My orders are clear from my employer. Contain the situation. Ensure the Thorne merger proceeds without… embarrassing complications." He looked at me, and for the first time, I saw a crack—not of sympathy, but of something like frustrated honor. "But you gave me a direct order, too. 'Her safety is the only priority.'" He paused. "I can't get her out that way. Not without a scene that gets her hurt. Or disappeared."
The floor seemed to tilt. Our escape hatch was welded shut. "What do you suggest?"
"You need a new exit. One he hasn't predicted. And you need a distraction. A big one." His eyes flicked past me, back toward the ballroom entrance where Layla stood, a silver statue amidst the swirling color. "You have about five minutes before he makes his approach. Use them."
He melted back into the shadows, leaving me standing there, my mind racing. A new exit. A distraction. My eyes swept the corridor. It led to the terrace, but also branched off to… the kitchens. The service elevators. The staff areas.
An idea, reckless and half-formed, began to crystallize. It was insane. It was our only shot.
I strode back to Layla. She searched my face. "What did he say?"
"Change of plans," I said, grabbing her hand. "We're not waiting for him. We're leaving. Now."
"What? How?"
"Follow my lead. And whatever happens, do not let go of my hand."
I didn't head for the ballroom. I pulled her deeper down the corridor, away from the music and light, toward a set of double swinging doors marked 'Staff Only' in discreet lettering.
"Ethan, where are we—"
I pushed through the doors. We were in a harshly lit, utilitarian hallway. The sounds of clattering pans and shouted orders echoed from a nearby kitchen. A busboy wheeling a cart of empty champagne flutes stared at us, slack-jawed—the heir in a tuxedo and a vision in silver, clearly in the wrong place.
I didn't break stride. I saw a service elevator at the end of the hall. Bingo.
We were halfway there when a stern voice called out behind us. "Hey! You can't be back here!"
I ignored it, picking up our pace. Layla's heels clicked frantically on the linoleum. I jabbed the elevator call button. It was on a lower floor. Come on.
Footsteps, heavier now, approached from behind. "I said stop! Security!"
The elevator dinged. The doors slid open, revealing an empty, steel-walled box.
I pulled Layla inside just as a beefy man in a club blazer rounded the corner. "Stop them!"
I punched the 'Door Close' button, then the button for the sub-basement—parking, deliveries, the bowels of the building. The doors began to slide shut.
The security guard lunged, his hand shooting out to block the doors. They bounced open.
Time slowed. Layla gasped. The guard's angry face was inches from mine.
Instinct took over. Not the calculated instinct of a Marshall, but the raw, desperate instinct of a cornered animal protecting its mate.
My fist connected with his jaw with a sickening crack. He grunted, staggering back, his hand dropping. The doors slid shut.
The elevator descended with a lurch.
Silence, except for our ragged breathing. My knuckles throbbed. Layla was pressed against the wall, her chest heaving, her eyes wild. The elegant goddess was gone, replaced by a fugitive. She was even more beautiful.
"You… you hit him," she panted.
"He was in the way." I flexed my hand, the adrenaline burning through me. The elevator slowed. The sub-basement.
The doors opened onto a concrete expanse lit by flickering fluorescents. It smelled of diesel and damp. Rows of industrial dumpsters lined one wall. Somewhere, a generator thrummed. This was the unseen machinery that kept the gilded world above functioning.
"Now what?" Layla whispered, the sound echoing in the cavernous space.
"Now, we find a way out that isn't the main entrance." I spotted a glowing red 'EXIT' sign above a heavy metal door at the far end. "There."
We started across the open floor, the sound of her heels impossibly loud. We were ten feet from the exit door when it swung open.
Gregory Marshall stepped through.
He wasn't hurried. He brushed a nonexistent piece of lint from the sleeve of his impeccably tailored tuxedo. His eyes, cold and assessing, took in the scene: his son with a busted knuckle, the girl in the million-dollar dress in a garbage bay.
"Running away, Ethan?" His voice was calm, conversational, a horrifying contrast to our panic. "I must say, I expected a more dignified exit strategy. Hiding in the basement? Associating with the help?" His gaze slid to Layla. "Miss Adams. You look… disheveled. The dress was a worthy investment, but the setting rather undermines the effect."
Layla said nothing. She just moved closer to my side, her shoulder touching mine.
"Let us pass, Father." My voice was steady, but my heart was a jackhammer against my ribs.
"To where? Your little safe house? The one you think I don't know about?" He smiled, a thin, cruel line. "Marcus is very thorough in his reports."
The betrayal was a physical blow. I'd played right into his hands. Every move.
"The car waiting upstairs isn't for you, Ethan. It's for Miss Adams. A direct ride to the airport. The Edinburgh offer is still on the table. A generous one." He took a step forward. "This ends now. Before you embarrass yourself and this family any further."
He reached out, not for me, but for Layla's arm.
Something in me snapped.
I didn't think. I moved. I stepped between them, catching his wrist before his fingers could touch her. The contact was electric. We stood frozen, my grip vise-like around his arm, his cold eyes burning into mine.
"Don't," I said, the single word dripping with a lifetime of suppressed venom. "You don't touch her."
His expression didn't change, but I saw the shock, quickly masked, in the slight widening of his eyes. I had never physically confronted him. Never.
The stalemate lasted a heartbeat. Then, from the shadows behind my father, two more figures emerged—his personal security, the ones from the terrace. They fanned out, blocking our path to the exit.
We were trapped.
—