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EPISODE 2 — The Boy Behind the Smile
(Ethan's POV)
The ballroom lights burned brighter than usual that night — gold, silver, and blue, shifting in rhythm with the bass that made the walls pulse. Everywhere I turned, faces blurred into one another — laughter too loud, perfume too strong, fake smiles too polished.
Prom.
People called it "the night you'll never forget." For me, it was the night I realized how much pretending went on in Avalon High.
I'd been pretending too.
Pretending to enjoy the attention. Pretending to care about who won Prom King. Pretending that my father's warning — "Don't make headlines tonight, Ethan" — wasn't echoing in my head.
The truth? I was suffocating.
My tie felt like a noose, my collar too tight. Everyone wanted to talk, to get close — the teachers who pretended they didn't know I'd been suspended twice, the girls who flirted like I was some prize.
All except one.
Layla Hert.
I'd noticed her the second she walked in — not because she was loud or trying too hard like the rest, but because she wasn't. Her silver dress caught the light like moonlight against water, her hair spilling down in soft curls that brushed her shoulders.
She didn't seem to realize how many eyes were on her.
That alone made me look twice.
When our eyes met across the ballroom, I didn't plan it. It just… happened.
Her gaze was steady, curious, a little startled. Most girls looked away in a heartbeat — giggling, whispering to their friends. But Layla didn't. Not right away. There was something behind her expression, like she was trying to read me — and failing, because I wasn't sure who I was myself anymore.
And for a brief second, the noise faded.
Then she looked away, and the moment broke.
---
"Dude, stop staring before she files a restraining order," my friend Marcus said, grinning like he'd caught me red-handed.
I smirked, pretending not to care. "You're imagining things."
"Yeah? Then why do you look like you just saw your future wife?"
I laughed under my breath and turned away. "You're drunk."
"Barely." He shoved my shoulder lightly. "Seriously, though — she's not like the others. You can tell. Quiet. Smart. Probably thinks you're trouble."
"She'd be right," I muttered.
Marcus raised an eyebrow. "You say that like you're proud."
I didn't answer.
Because part of me wasn't proud — just tired. Tired of being the guy everyone assumed I was: rich, reckless, untouchable.
They never saw the parts that didn't fit the story — the pressure, the silence at home, the expectations. My father ran half the city's real estate, and I was supposed to follow in his footsteps, smile on cue, make the Marshall name look flawless.
But tonight, none of that mattered.
Not when a girl in silver was out there looking like she belonged to a quieter world.
---
Half an hour later, the crowd felt unbearable. Marcus was dancing with a girl I didn't recognize, and someone had already spilled punch on my jacket. I needed air — a way out before I said something sharp and ruined the night for everyone.
So I slipped outside.
The balcony doors opened with a faint creak, and the cool air hit me instantly — crisp and grounding. The city spread below, glittering like spilled diamonds under a velvet sky.
And then I saw her.
Layla.
Leaning against the railing, her hands resting lightly on the cool metal, eyes fixed on the skyline. Her silver dress shimmered under the moonlight, soft and unreal, like she'd stepped out of a dream.
She didn't hear me at first.
For a moment, I just watched — her shoulders rising and falling in rhythm with her breath, a small sigh escaping her lips.
Without thinking, I spoke.
"Running away already?"
She startled slightly, turning toward me. Her lips parted, surprise flashing in her eyes — until recognition softened her expression.
"Ethan."
Something about the way she said my name — quiet, unguarded — made the noise inside me go still.
"Didn't expect to find you out here," I said, stepping forward slowly.
"Didn't expect to be found."
I smirked. "Guess I'm good at finding things I'm not supposed to."
Her mouth twitched. "Or maybe you just like being where you shouldn't be."
That made me chuckle — genuinely, not the practiced kind. "Touché."
We stood there, the distance between us shrinking but still careful. The air carried her perfume — light, floral, something clean that made my thoughts blur.
"Why are you out here?" I asked after a beat.
She turned back to the view. "I needed a break."
"From what?"
"The noise. The people. Expectations."
That word made something twist inside me. I moved closer, leaning against the railing beside her. "You're not really like the others, are you?"
Her brows rose. "What makes you say that?"
"Because you're not pretending."
She blinked, looking genuinely curious. "Pretending what?"
"That you're having fun."
For the first time, she laughed — soft and real, not forced. "You're observant."
"I'm interested."
I didn't mean for it to come out that way, low and deliberate, but her eyes flicked up to mine, startled.
"Don't be," she said.
But her voice wasn't convincing.
"Why not?"
"Because you're Ethan Marshall," she whispered. "And I know your type."
That pulled me up short.
My type.
She didn't say it like an insult — more like a fact she'd already accepted. And I hated how accurate it probably was.
"You think you've figured me out?" I asked quietly.
"I don't need to. You make it obvious."
Her words weren't cruel — just honest.
And that honesty made something inside me shift.
"Maybe you're wrong," I said after a pause. "Maybe there's more to me than what people see."
She studied me for a long moment before replying. "Maybe you're just good at making people believe there is."
Ouch.
She had no idea how close that hit.
Because I'd been doing exactly that my whole life — playing a part, keeping up the image, never letting anyone see the cracks.
And here she was, seeing them anyway.
---
The city lights shimmered below us, and the music from the ballroom drifted faintly through the open door. I looked at her again, really looked — the curve of her jaw, the tension in her shoulders, the faint shimmer of gloss on her lips.
I wanted to say something else, something that would make her see I wasn't the guy she thought I was. But words felt useless.
So I let silence do the talking.
She didn't look away this time.
Her eyes met mine — steady, curious, a little defiant. The kind of gaze that didn't back down easily.
I took a slow step closer. Then another.
Her breath hitched. I heard it, felt it — that small shift in air that told me she wasn't as unaffected as she tried to seem.
Close enough now to see the tiny freckles near her temple. Close enough to catch the faint tremor in her fingers where they rested on the railing.
My eyes dropped, almost involuntarily, to her lips — soft, parted, uncertain.
Every logical thought told me to back off.
But logic had never been my strong suit.
"I don't play games," I said, my voice rougher than I intended.
Her eyes flickered. "Then what is this?"
"Maybe," I said slowly, leaning in until I could feel her warmth, "this is me being real."
For one suspended heartbeat, neither of us moved.
Her gaze held mine, her pulse visible at the base of her throat.
And just when the space between us felt ready to shatter — I stepped back.
Not because I wanted to, but because if I didn't, I wasn't sure I'd stop.
"Goodnight, Layla," I murmured near her ear.
Then I walked away — before I could change my mind.
---
The cold air hit harder once I was inside again. The lights, the laughter, the flashing cameras — they all felt distant, unreal.
Marcus found me near the exit, grinning like an idiot. "Man, where were you? People were looking for you."
"Getting some air," I said simply.
He raised a brow. "With who?"
I didn't answer.
Because even saying her name felt too personal — too close to something I wasn't ready to define.
All I knew was this: I'd walked into prom feeling empty.
And somehow, a single conversation on a balcony had made everything else fade into background noise.
---
That night, I couldn't sleep.
Not because of the noise from the afterparty or the messages piling up on my phone.
But because every time I closed my eyes, I saw her — silver dress, moonlight hair, the quiet defiance in her voice when she said, "Because you're Ethan Marshall."
She was right.
And that was exactly why I couldn't stop thinking about her.
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