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Episode 5: Intrigue Unravels
The days after Prom Night came in waves of whispers and notifications. Riverside High buzzed with new gossip—Layla Wellington's name everywhere.
#LaylaEthanPromCouple trended for two days straight; students replayed their dance over and over on Reels. Someone even edited slow-motion clips with dreamy music and captions like "The couple that stole Prom Night."
Layla couldn't walk through the hallway without hearing a giggle, a phone snap, or a muttered "That's her."
She tried to stay focused—creative-arts duties, Advanced Literature essays, last-minute budget reports from the Prom Committee—but she felt the eyes.
It wasn't fame. It was scrutiny.
Ethan Marshall was equally surrounded. The basketball team teased him constantly.
"Bro, you went full Romeo at Prom!"
But behind the laughter, he noticed the way Tiffany Larson watched from a distance—cool, poised, calculating.
Tiffany had once been the school's golden girl before Layla's rise in the arts scene. Now, she seemed determined to reclaim attention by any means. When she stumbled on an old drive of archived photos, she saw her chance.
That afternoon, #RiversideUndercurrents revived—a notorious gossip page students both feared and followed.
An upload appeared: Ethan, laughing with a girl in a red dress. Caption:
"Old flame? Naomi returns. Some people move on fast."
Comments flooded in before the post even hit its first hour.
"Wait, wasn't Naomi that senior who graduated last year?"
"Ethan's type doesn't change."
Layla saw it accidentally while scrolling after lunch. Her chest clenched—not from jealousy, but confusion.
That same evening, a text came from an unknown number:
> Watch Ethan's true alliances. Not all's safe.
She froze. The words pulsed on her screen like a heartbeat.
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The next morning, Ethan found her in the art studio—sketching absent-mindedly.
"Hey," he said quietly, hands shoved in his pockets. "You saw the posts?"
She looked up. "Hard to miss."
"They're old photos, Layla. Two years old. Naomi was a senior—she helped me plan the Sports Gala. That's it."
Layla wanted to believe him. "I know. But the texts—"
"Texts?" he frowned. "What texts?"
She hesitated, then showed him the message.
Ethan's brows furrowed. "Someone's trying to play us. Don't let them."
He spoke with conviction, but there was something guarded in his tone.
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By Wednesday, a new tension surrounded them both. Olivia Reyes's email came that afternoon:
> Meeting confirmed. 5 p.m. sharp. Penthouse 22. Bring Layla Wellington.
The name rang familiar—Olivia was a Riverside alumna, now running a fast-growing tech-innovation startup. Her sudden interest was flattering… and suspicious.
When Layla and Ethan arrived, they were greeted by a minimalist glass office and an even more intimidating skyline. Olivia, elegant in a tailored charcoal suit, gestured toward the conference table.
"Ethan Marshall," she said smoothly, shaking his hand. "Impressive pitch at the Tech Hub. You have potential. But creativity—true marketable creativity—needs the right collaborator."
Her gaze shifted to Layla. "That's where you come in."
Layla sat straighter. "Partnerships need alignment," she said calmly. "Goals, transparency—and clear boundaries."
Olivia smiled, the kind of smile that never reached her eyes. "Of course. But risk and reward walk hand in hand, don't they? Ethan understands that."
Ethan nodded, though his jaw tightened. Layla noticed.
For the next half-hour, Olivia outlined an ambitious partnership—an app that merged tech innovation with artistic branding. Layla listened carefully, contributing ideas, asking pointed questions. Each answer impressed Olivia more, though the woman's tone carried something unreadable—admiration or testing, maybe both.
When the meeting ended, Olivia clasped Layla's hand. "Keep your circle small," she murmured. "Not everyone celebrates your growth."
As they stepped out, Layla's phone buzzed again. Another unknown text:
> Don't trust Olivia fully. Watch Ethan's real moves.
Her heart stuttered. She slipped the phone into her purse, saying nothing.
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The drive home was silent at first. City lights flickered through the car window, painting fleeting patterns across Ethan's face.
Finally, he broke the quiet. "You've been distant."
"I'm processing," she said softly. "There's a lot happening at once."
"I'll protect what we're building," he promised.
Layla turned to him. "Just be honest with me. That's all I need."
His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. "Always."
He parked by Riverside's overlook—a quiet hill where the whole city shimmered below. The wind carried a faint chill, rustling her hair.
"Layla," he said, voice low. "Whatever comes next—we face it together."
She nodded, though deep down, a storm brewed between belief and doubt.
He reached out, brushing his thumb across her cheek—a moment suspended between friendship, love, and danger. Their eyes met; silence thickened.
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Back in her room later that night, Layla stood before her wardrobe. Her silver Prom dress still hung there, shimmering faintly under the lamp.
It looked innocent, untouched—yet somehow it symbolized everything that had changed.
Her phone buzzed once more before midnight.
> Naomi hasn't said her last word.
Layla's pulse raced.
The Prom was over—but something darker was just beginning.
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