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Episode 7: Fractured Truths
Morning light spilled through Layla Wellington's curtains like a hesitant secret, brushing the edge of her bed where her phone still glowed faintly. She hadn't slept much. Tiffany Larson's midnight post — the blurred photo, that ominous caption: "Some stories don't end at Prom Night." — had spread like wildfire.
By the time she scrolled through her notifications, #RiversideUndercurrents had evolved into something uglier — rumor threads, theories, whispers about Ethan Marshall's past, Olivia Reyes's motives, even Layla herself. The comments stung more than she wanted to admit.
> "She's just another pretty face caught in his mess."
"Did she really think she could handle Ethan Marshall?"
"Bet it's all for attention."
Layla locked her phone and pressed her palms to her eyes. She wanted to scream, to tell them they didn't know the truth — but which truth? The one Ethan told her? The one Tiffany hinted at? Or the one still hiding in between?
Her thoughts were interrupted by a message from Ethan.
> Ethan: Meet me at the pier. We need to talk. Don't let the noise get to you.
The pier. Their place of quiet.
She showered, dressed simply — jeans, white top, jacket — and tied her hair into a neat puff. When she arrived, Ethan was already there, leaning against his car, the morning wind ruffling his dark hair. He looked exhausted — not broken, just weighed down.
"Layla," he said softly as she approached.
"I saw it," she replied. "The post."
"I figured you would." His eyes met hers, steady, though a shadow lingered in them. "Tiffany won't stop until she burns everything down. She's using old photos, twisting stories from years ago."
Layla folded her arms, studying him. "You said Naomi was just a colleague. But Tiffany makes it sound like there was more."
Ethan exhaled, jaw tightening. "Naomi and I… worked on a tech project three years ago. She wanted something more. I didn't. Things ended badly, and she left the city. Tiffany's just weaponizing it."
Layla searched his face — the hesitation, the flicker in his eyes — and she didn't know whether to believe him entirely or not. But what unsettled her most was how much she wanted to.
"I'm not sure who to trust anymore," she admitted quietly.
Ethan stepped closer, close enough for her to feel the warmth radiating off him. "Then trust me," he said, voice low. "Not the noise, not the posts — me."
Her breath caught. There was something in his tone — not pleading, but grounding, anchoring her.
"Ethan…"
He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, fingers lingering a second too long. "Layla, we're in this together. Whatever Tiffany's planning — it's deeper than gossip. Olivia's warned me someone's funding her. Someone from within the project."
Her eyes widened. "You mean… someone inside?"
He nodded. "A new investor just joined the board — Alexandra Vaughn. She's brilliant, charming… but Olivia thinks she's playing both sides. She wants to meet us privately today."
Layla frowned. "Why would she want me there?"
"Because," Ethan said, "you're the one she doesn't understand yet."
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By noon, they were in the heart of downtown — Olivia's sleek penthouse office, the skyline shimmering beyond floor-to-ceiling windows. Olivia's posture was elegant, her expression sharp as glass.
"Glad you both came," she said, her tone clipped but warm. "The situation is accelerating faster than expected. Tiffany's content has reach — but she's not working alone."
Layla's stomach twisted. "Who is?"
Before Olivia could answer, the door opened and in walked a woman who looked like she'd stepped out of a glossy magazine — tall, confident, with silver-blonde hair and the kind of smile that could charm or destroy in equal measure.
"Alexandra Vaughn," she said smoothly, offering her hand first to Ethan, then to Layla. "I've heard a lot about you both."
"Likewise," Ethan replied, careful.
Olivia gestured for everyone to sit. "Alexandra's company oversees media security for several of our investors. She's been monitoring #RiversideUndercurrents' data spikes."
Alexandra crossed her legs, eyes sharp. "The pattern isn't organic. Someone's funding the circulation — fake accounts, paid amplifiers. They're trying to dismantle the project's reputation before launch."
Layla leaned forward. "So Tiffany's not alone?"
"Far from it," Alexandra said. "She's just the distraction."
The room went still.
Ethan frowned. "Then who's behind it?"
Alexandra's gaze shifted toward him — calculating, almost sympathetic. "That's what we're still uncovering. But there's one lead. Naomi Rivers."
Layla's pulse stumbled. "Naomi? She's back?"
Alexandra nodded. "Her name appeared in the data chain. Encrypted messages traced to an account linked with her initials. She's resurfaced — and she's not happy."
Olivia stood, hands clasped. "We need containment before this becomes public chaos. Alexandra, keep monitoring. Ethan, stay low profile. Layla…" Her tone softened. "Protect your image. Right now, perception is everything."
Layla nodded slowly, though unease pooled in her gut.
As they left, Ethan looked distracted — his mind clearly racing. They entered the elevator together, the hum of the city faint below.
"You okay?" she asked.
He didn't answer at first. Then he turned to her — close, too close. "I don't like how fast this is spiraling."
"I know."
The space between them felt charged — words left unspoken, emotions barely contained. His hand brushed hers as the elevator slowed, and she didn't pull away. For a moment, everything outside — Tiffany, Naomi, Olivia, Alexandra — disappeared.
"Layla," he murmured. "Whatever happens next… promise me you'll stay with me in this."
Her heart thudded. "You don't even have to ask."
When the doors opened, they stepped out — together, side by side, into a city humming with secrets.
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That evening, back in her apartment, Layla tried to focus on her assignments, but her thoughts circled endlessly. Every shadow seemed to whisper something she couldn't quite hear.
Her phone buzzed again. Another anonymous message.
> "You think he's telling you everything? Watch the ones who stand too close."
Her hands trembled slightly as she read it. For the first time, doubt didn't just whisper — it screamed.
Meanwhile, in another part of the city, Ethan stared at a message of his own — one Naomi had sent just hours earlier:
> "We need to meet. I know who's behind all this. And it's not Tiffany."
He closed his laptop slowly, a grim realization dawning.
The real storm hadn't even begun.
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