Chapter 3
The moment Ethan Hayes stepped onto the cracked asphalt of his driveway, he felt the air shift heavy, charged, and cold. The silence of the house was worse than any shouting. It meant the storm was already contained, waiting to be unleashed with surgical precision.Derek Hayes didn't move from his position by the sedan. He just smirked, a cruel facsimile of their father's condescension. "Took you long enough, Einstein. Did you stop to count the mitochondria on the way home?""Shut up, Derek," Ethan muttered, walking past him."Oh, I wouldn't rush in," Derek said, pushing off the car and following. His older brother was a study in failed potential: smart enough to know better, lazy enough to resent anyone who tried harder. "He's not mad about the Miller account anymore. He's mad about you."Ethan froze at the front door. "What did you do?" "Nothing," Derek said, shrugging, his eyes glinting with malicious pleasure. "But your GPS tracker showed you lingering at the school for forty minutes after dismissal. He pulled your texts. He called Hargrove's office. He thinks you're falling apart, and he says falling apart costs money."Ethan's heart sank. Mr. Hayes didn't just punish failure; he punished indiscretion. The late exit, the unexplained delay it suggested a focus divided from his academics, and that was the cardinal sin.He pushed open the door. The foyer smelled of lemon polish and contained anger.Mr. Hayes was standing rigidly by the kitchen island, still in his expensive suit, his briefcase resting on the granite like a weapon. He didn't turn around. He was staring at a sheet of paper a printout of Ethan's AP Chemistry progress report."Ethan," his father said, his voice quiet. Too quiet. "Come here."Ethan walked across the tile floor, every footstep amplifying the dread. Mrs. Hayes, their mother, stood in the archway of the dining room, her hand pressed to her mouth, her eyes pleading with Ethan to diffuse the bomb. She was wearing her armor the silent retreat that protected her but left her sons exposed.Mr. Hayes finally turned. He didn't shout. He placed the report on the counter. The score was a 97%."This is not a 100%," Mr. Hayes stated, tapping the paper with a manicured finger. "That is not why I am angry. This suggests competence. But I received a call from the administration earlier. They were checking on your whereabouts. They suggested you were 'under duress' due to 'social issues.'"He leaned in, his face perfectly controlled, radiating cold disappointment. "We are investing $40,000 a year in your success, Ethan. Harvard is not interested in social issues. They are interested in performance. I specifically told you to maintain perfect focus this semester. This... delay... this lack of discipline... it indicates that you are vulnerable.""Dad, I was just getting my notes—""Silence!" The word exploded, shaking the silence of the house. "I called your school, Ethan, because I was trying to save face with the Miller fallout. Now I find out my oldest son is irresponsible, and my perfect son is risking his future over some high school drama."He snatched up the briefcase and unclasped it, revealing not files, but a thin, expensive leather wallet. He pulled out a card."This," Mr. Hayes said, holding up the MasterCard Ethan used for books and gas, "is being canceled. Effective immediately. You clearly cannot manage your responsibilities, so I will manage them for you. You will focus solely on achieving 100% in all classes. I want to see a full, handwritten apology and explanation for this lapse, detailing how you plan to mitigate future distractions."He dropped the card into a small paper shredder on the counter, the whirring noise a final, cruel punctuation mark.No card. That wasn't just losing money; that was losing his one small sliver of autonomy. The card represented the ability to drive away when the walls closed in. Now, if he needed gas, he had to ask. If he wanted food, he had to ask. Everything was tracked, everything was dependent on his father's approval.The financial bind was instant, suffocating. He thought of the gas money he needed just to drive to Lena's house tonight a small, necessary ritual to maintain the truce. He didn't even have the ten dollars for a full tank. His lawn-mowing money was gone; he'd spent the last of it on the sodas he'd bought just before the betrayal.He had nothing left. The academic success, the 97% that was supposed to be his ticket out, had been used as the rope to hang him. The only value he had was his predictability, and the betrayal had made him unpredictable.Ethan didn't fight. He just nodded, his face blank. "Yes, sir."He retreated to his room, locking the door against Derek's inevitable mocking. He looked at his desk: calculus homework, stacked books, his life mapped out in perfectly straight lines. It was all a lie.He picked up his phone. 7:30 PM. Lena would be waiting. He had to go. He had to maintain the truce. It was the only thing standing between him and total, crushing isolation.He texted her: Almost there. Just finished dinner.He waited for thirty minutes, staring at the ceiling, trying to breathe past the panic. He finally stood, grabbed his car keys, and went downstairs, slipping past the living room where Mr. Hayes was now watching the news, Derek slumped on the couch beside him."Where are you going?" his father asked, not taking his eyes off the screen."Library, sir. To write the apology and plan the mitigation strategy."Mr. Hayes nodded once. "Acceptable."Ethan drove, but the fear was a heavy cloak. He pulled into the gas station. His tank was nearly empty. He tried the debit card his mother had given him for emergencies; it declined. Canceled.He drove on fumes to Lena's quiet, suburban street. He parked down the block, praying he had enough gas to get back.He walked to her front door. The porch light was on. It was a sign of safety, a silent promise. He raised his hand to knock.But before his knuckles could hit the wood, his phone buzzed violently.It was Mia, the girl from the group chat, texting him privately. Not about homework.Mia: Ethan, I'm so sorry. Did you see? It's not just in the chat.He didn't understand. He opened the link Mia had sent. It was a local high school gossip blog one they usually ignored.The headline was huge, splashed across the screen: ROOM 104 RED-HANDED: NORTHWOOD'S POWER COUPLE EXPOSED.Beneath the headline was a blurry, grainy photo. It was a screenshot of Lena on the desk, Ryan in front of her. The lighting was poor, the quality terrible, but the composition the intense focus of their bodies, Lena's face arched back in that moment of pleasure was unmistakable. Someone had zoomed in on the original footage and circulated the worst possible frame.The caption beneath the photo was brutal: "Looks like Captain Sterling decided to use the school's perfect student, Ethan Hayes, as a chaperone for his girl's anatomy lesson. Some anchors just get dragged down."The comments were already exploding: ridicule, pity, and vicious speculation.He staggered backward, leaning against a tree, gasping for air. It wasn't just a betrayal anymore. It was public, permanent humiliation, tied directly to his academic standing and his personal worth, precisely what his father feared. The video was evidence.He looked at Lena's inviting porch light. The truth crashed down with crushing force: The truce was a lie. He couldn't pretend everything was normal anymore. He couldn't be her placeholder, her shield, her safe place. He was tainted, shamed, and dangerously exposed.He pulled up Lena's contact. He didn't text. He didn't call. He deleted her number entirely. Then he deleted Ryan's number. He deleted the group chat. He deleted the gossip blog history.He turned and walked away from the house, not looking back at the porch light, his feet dragging him toward the only thing he had left: his car, running on empty, taking him back toward the storm.He drove aimlessly, the panic overwhelming him. He couldn't go back to his father's house. He couldn't face the school. He pulled into the deserted Northwood High parking lot, a dark, empty monument to his defeat.He found the nearest bathroom. He stared at his face in the cracked mirror, seeing not the future Harvard student, but the exposed fool, the subject of the viral photo.He slammed his fist into the reflective surface with a guttural roar, the glass fracturing instantly, scattering light and scattering his image into a dozen agonizing, broken versions of himself. The sharp, searing pain in his hand was the only real thing left.His phone buzzed. He ignored the blood running down his knuckles and pulled it out.It was an email. Not from a student. From the school.Subject: Mandatory Meeting: Hayes, E.Body: Ethan. Due to the high-profile nature of the Room 104 incident and the subsequent circulation of the digital evidence, your mandatory meeting is scheduled for tomorrow morning at 8:00 AM. Attendance is non-negotiable. You will need to bring one parent.