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EPISODE 1 — The Night That Changed Everything
(Layla's POV)
The air inside Avalon High's ballroom shimmered with perfume, heat, and cheap champagne. Music thundered through the speakers, the bass deep enough to rattle the floor beneath my heels. Everyone was laughing too loudly, moving too wildly — like the night would vanish if they didn't hold on hard enough.
Prom night.
The grand finale of our teenage years.
And somehow, the night my life began to shift in ways I couldn't yet understand.
"Layla!"
Chloe's voice cut through the music. She rushed up, eyes sparkling under the twinkling lights strung across the ceiling. "You look like a freaking goddess," she said, gripping my hands dramatically. "Silver? Really? You're glowing."
I smiled, trying not to tug at the hem of my dress. "You think it's too much?"
"Too much?" she gasped. "Girl, you could walk into any room and have hearts dropping."
I laughed, but it came out nervous — because the one heart I secretly wanted to drop hadn't even looked my way.
And then… he did.
Ethan Marshall.
Even his name felt like trouble waiting to happen.
He stood across the ballroom near the punch table, the faint smirk on his lips illuminated by the soft gold light. His black tux fit perfectly, crisp and effortless, his tie slightly loose like rules never applied to him.
Every girl noticed him. Every teacher pretended not to.
And me? I'd spent years pretending not to care.
But tonight was different. His gaze lifted, slowly sweeping across the room — and landed squarely on mine.
It wasn't a fleeting glance. It lingered. Like he was trying to place me, like he'd seen me somewhere he shouldn't have.
My heart stuttered, and I immediately looked away.
Chloe elbowed me. "Tell me you just saw that."
"I don't know what you're talking about," I lied, taking a sip of my drink.
"Oh, please. Ethan Marshall just checked you out like you were the only girl here. Don't act innocent."
"I'm not acting," I muttered. "And he wasn't."
But the heat in my cheeks said otherwise.
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Half an hour later, I slipped out onto the balcony. The air was cool, a relief against the heavy perfume and gossip inside. I leaned against the railing, looking out over the city lights.
Maybe I just needed a minute to breathe — to stop thinking about a boy who'd never notice me beyond this night.
The door creaked open behind me. Footsteps. Slow. Confident.
"Running away already?"
That voice.
Low. Deep. Dangerous enough to make my spine straighten.
I turned, heartbeat quickening. "Ethan."
He stood there in the doorway, hands in his pockets, his tie now undone, his expression unreadable.
"Didn't expect to find you out here," he said, stepping closer.
"Didn't expect to be found," I replied.
He chuckled, the sound low and smooth. "Guess I'm good at finding things I'm not supposed to."
"Or maybe," I said softly, "you just like being where you shouldn't be."
That earned me a slow grin. "Touché."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward — it was electric. The kind of silence that hummed between two people who shouldn't be drawn to each other but are anyway.
"Why are you out here?" he asked after a while.
"I needed a break."
"From what?"
"The noise. The people. Expectations."
He raised a brow. "You're not really like the others, are you?"
I looked at him. "What makes you say that?"
"Because you're not pretending."
I blinked. "Pretending what?"
"That you're having fun."
That made me laugh, quietly. "You're observant."
"I'm interested."
There it was again — that dangerous tone, heavy with implication.
"Don't be," I said, even though I didn't mean it.
He tilted his head, eyes studying me carefully. "Why not?"
"Because you're Ethan Marshall," I whispered. "And I know your type."
He smirked. "You think you've figured me out?"
"I don't need to. You make it obvious."
His smirk faded, replaced with something quieter. "Maybe you're wrong. Maybe there's more to me than what people see."
"Maybe," I said softly, "you're just good at making people believe there is."
We stared at each other for what felt like forever. The city lights glittered behind him, casting shadows across his face. He took a slow step closer — then another — until the distance between us was dangerously thin.
His scent — clean, woodsy, expensive — filled my head. His eyes dropped briefly to my lips before meeting mine again.
"I don't play games," he said, voice barely above a whisper.
"Then what is this?"
"Maybe," he said, leaning closer, "this is me being real."
For a second, I thought he'd kiss me. My breath hitched, and my heart pounded so loudly I was sure he could hear it. But he didn't close the gap.
Instead, his lips brushed near my ear as he murmured, "Goodnight, Layla."
And then he walked away — leaving me standing there, breathless, confused, and entirely aware that something had shifted inside me.
That night, I didn't dance again. I didn't laugh, or even remember half the songs that played.
Because all I could think about was him.
And the way his voice had sounded when he said my name — like he was already planning to say it again.
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