---
EPISODE 9 — Pressure and Power
(Ethan's POV)
The ringtone pierced the quiet of my dorm room like a warning siren. I froze, hand hovering over the phone, heart hammering. Dad.
I had hoped the morning would allow me a moment of calm, some time to breathe after the chaos the campus had already endured — the whispers, the stares, the clips of our kiss circulating faster than I could process. But it was too late. The storm was coming.
I stared at the screen, the name flashing insistently: Dad. My chest tightened, remembering my father's voice from years past, the weight of his words, the authority behind them: "Don't make headlines, Ethan. Don't ever make headlines."
I didn't pick up. Not yet. Not until I had a plan. Because if he called now, the conversation would not be gentle. It would be sharp, deliberate, the kind that left no room for argument.
Instead, I let it ring, my mind racing through every possible scenario. He could already know. The video. The kiss. Layla. All of it.
I tried to imagine how he would react. My father, Gregory Marshall, was a man whose influence stretched far beyond Avalon University, whose connections could dictate the course of careers, futures, and reputations. A single misstep on my part could ignite a chain reaction that I wasn't sure either of us could contain.
I paced the room, hoodie half-zipped, eyes darting to the mirror. The face staring back at me was calm — or it had to be. Ethan Marshall, the composed, untouchable heir. But beneath that practiced exterior, anxiety twisted through my veins like fire. Every second I delayed answering my father's call felt like a gamble, and losing this gamble could cost more than just my pride.
The phone vibrated again. I finally picked it up, sliding the screen to answer.
"Ethan," his voice was sharp, carrying the weight of authority and the unspoken expectation of obedience. "What have you done?"
"Morning, Dad," I said, keeping my tone neutral, careful not to betray the rush of panic threading through me.
"You know exactly what I'm talking about," he said, and I could hear the controlled fury in his tone. "I saw the video."
My pulse spiked. "You—how?"
"I don't need to explain how," he cut me off. "I see everything that matters, Ethan. And right now, you've made a headline that I won't tolerate."
I ran a hand through my hair, trying to steady the tremor in my fingers. "It wasn't like that. It was—"
"Don't make excuses," he snapped. "You're old enough to know the consequences of reckless actions. You have a name, a family, a legacy. And yet, here you are, letting your impulses dictate your choices in public."
I swallowed hard, remembering the full scope of his warning. Don't make headlines. My life had been a careful construction, every decision measured, every action designed to maintain control. And now, one kiss — a single, stolen moment — had thrown it all into jeopardy.
"I understand, Dad," I said quietly. "I… I will handle it."
"You will?" There was a pause, tense and heavy. "Or you think you will?"
"I will," I said again, firmer this time. "I'm not reckless. I'll make sure the situation is contained."
"You better, Ethan," he warned. "Because one misstep, one viral moment, and it won't just be your reputation that suffers. Do you understand me?"
"I do," I said, biting back the frustration threatening to spill. "I… I understand."
He didn't respond immediately. There was a long silence, the kind that pressed down on me like an iron weight. Finally, he spoke, his voice measured, unyielding. "See that it stays that way. And Ethan—don't disappoint me."
"I won't," I whispered.
The call ended before I could respond further. My fingers lingered on the phone, knuckles white. I sank onto the edge of my bed, the weight of responsibility pressing down like a physical force. I had never felt so exposed. My private life, my choices, my feelings — everything was suddenly public, scrutinized, and I was at the mercy of the Marshall legacy.
And yet, even with the pressure, even with the threat of his fury looming over me, I couldn't erase the memory of her lips, the soft warmth of her skin against mine, the electric tension that had made it impossible to step away.
Because some risks were worth it. Even if the world — even if my father — didn't approve.
---
I left the dorm, needing air, needing space to think. The campus was alive, buzzing with activity, yet every glance I received reminded me of the video, of the kiss, of the attention I couldn't escape. Students whispered as I passed, phones angled discreetly, the faint click of a camera shutter in my periphery. I kept my hoodie up, hands stuffed into the pockets, eyes scanning the crowd for one familiar face.
And there she was. Layla, sitting beneath the oak tree, sketchbook in hand, eyes tracing the lines of her latest drawing, completely absorbed — yet aware. Our eyes met, and for a heartbeat, the noise of the world seemed to fade. The chaos of social media, of campus gossip, even my father's warning — it all felt distant, irrelevant.
"Ethan," she said softly as I approached, her voice a calm anchor against the storm. "You look… exhausted."
"I am," I admitted, sliding onto the bench beside her. "But this is nothing compared to what's coming."
Her brow furrowed. "Coming?"
"My father," I said quietly. "He knows. And he doesn't tolerate headlines."
Her eyes widened slightly, and I could see the flicker of concern, the shadow of fear for what might happen to me — to us. "Then what do we do?"
"We survive," I said, voice low. "We control what we can, protect what matters, and—" I hesitated, looking at her — "—and we don't let anyone else dictate how we feel. Not even my father."
Her lips curved in a small, knowing smile. "That's… incredibly reckless."
I leaned back, exhaling slowly. "Maybe. But some risks are worth taking."
---
By mid-afternoon, the ripple of the video had spread beyond campus. Messages from friends, random students tagging me, snippets from the video posted on forums I didn't even recognize. My phone buzzed incessantly, each notification a fresh spike of tension.
I texted Marcus: Handle the crowd. Layla stays out of this.
He replied instantly: Already done. You good?
I smirked faintly. Trying.
Even as I walked across the quad, carefully avoiding the larger groups of students, I couldn't stop thinking of the conversation I'd just had with my father. Gregory Marshall — a man whose name carried weight and consequences — had made one thing clear: one public misstep, and the fallout could be catastrophic.
But worse than that was the reality that no one could truly control attention in the age of social media. A single moment, a single kiss, had become a headline overnight. My father's warning wasn't just about me — it was about control, about legacy, about power. And now, I had to navigate it carefully, balancing my feelings with the expectations of a man who had never tolerated mistakes.
---
Evening came, and with it, a fragile quiet. I found Layla again near the library fountain, sketchbook resting on her lap. The golden hour light framed her face, softening the edges of the chaos that surrounded us.
"I can't promise this will be easy," I admitted, voice low, almost vulnerable. "Everything I do… everything I feel… it's complicated now. My father, the video, the expectations — it's a lot to carry."
She looked up at me, eyes steady. "I don't care about the video. I don't care about the campus gossip. I care about you, Ethan. That's all that matters."
I blinked, caught off guard. Her words were simple, yet they carried the weight of a promise I hadn't realized I needed. A promise that even in the chaos, in the storm of scrutiny, we could find some quiet.
"And yet," she added softly, "you still have to deal with headlines."
I nodded, swallowing the tension knotting my throat. "Yes. And I will. But not if it means losing… this. Losing you."
Her gaze softened, and for a fleeting moment, the world — the campus, the social media frenzy, even my father's looming shadow — didn't exist. There was only the faint warmth of her presence, the quiet electricity of proximity, and the unspoken understanding that some things were worth every risk.
Because some risks weren't just worth taking. They were unavoidable.
And this — us — was one of them.
---
Ethan's phone vibrated again. The screen lit up with a name that made my chest tighten: Dad.
I stared at it, thumb hovering over the screen. The call would not be easy. It never was. But now, for the first time, I didn't feel like running.
I picked up.
"Ethan," my father's voice was firm, unyielding, but tinged with something I hadn't expected — a question, almost curiosity. "Explain yourself."
I drew a deep breath, the chaos of the day pooling behind my eyes. "Dad… I will. But first, I need you to understand… some things are worth the storm."
There was silence on the other end. And in that silence, I felt the first flicker of control returning. Not over the headlines, not over my father — but over me, over my choices, over what I was willing to fight for.
The storm was coming. And I was ready.
---