Page 127 of His Drama Queen

FALL SHOWCASE - AUDITIONS OCTOBER 15-16HEDDA GABLER by Henrik IbsenDirected by Professor De ScarzisPrepare a contemporary monologue (2 minutes max)Sign-up sheet posted outside Studio 3B

My stomach does a complicated flip. Hedda Gabler. The story of a woman trapped by circumstance and expectation, manipulating everyone around her in increasingly desperate attempts at control until it all collapses. Dark. Psychologically complex. Exactly the kind of role that could make or break a scholarship student's standing.

"That's ambitious," I say, keeping my voice neutral. "De Scarzis doesn't mess around."

"You'd be perfect for Hedda," Robbie says immediately. "The whole 'trapped by society' thing? You could do that in your sleep."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence in my personal misery."

"I calls 'em like I sees 'em."

Ben's been quiet, studying the announcement on Stephanie's phone. "I'm thinking Løvborg," he says finally. "The self-destructive poet who can't escape his past? That's got my name written all over it."

"You're not self-destructive," I protest.

His eyes meet mine, and there's something rueful in them. "I transferred to a school where the girl I'm interested in is bonded to three Alphas who hate me. That's at least moderately questionable judgment."

The café noise fades to background static. Robbie and Stephanie suddenly find their phones very interesting.

"Ben—"

"I know." He cuts me off gently, but firmly. "I know the situation. I'm not here to make your life more complicated. I needed to be here. To see if there was any chance, or if I needed to move on." His smile is crooked. "Still figuring out which one it is."

The honesty in his voice makes my chest ache. Because I don't know which one it is either. The bonds with the pack are real—biological, binding, impossible to ignore. But so is this pull toward Ben. Toward someone who makes me laugh. Who sees me as Vespera, not an Omega or a scholarship case or a problem to be solved.

"We should practice together," I hear myself say. "For auditions. We could give each other feedback."

"I'd like that." The way he looks at me makes my pulse kick up.

Stephanie clears her throat loudly. "Okay, since you two are apparently incapable of subtlety, I'm going to be the adult here and point out that you have Scene Study in twenty minutes. You know, the class where Wells is assigning partners for the semester?"

Right. Scene Study. The class I share with Dorian.

My stomach sinks.

Thepackisalreadyin Studio 2A when I arrive. Dorian sitting second row center, Corvus on his left, Oakley on his right. The three of them taking up space like they own it—which, given their families' endowments, they basically do.

Dorian's eyes track me as I enter, and the bond pulls. Not painful, but present. A constant awareness of his attention, his location, his emotional state. The bonds work both ways, which means he's feeling my reluctance to sit with them right now.

I take a seat on the opposite side of the room, next to Maya from Movement class. Dorian's jaw tightens, but he doesn't say anything.

Professor Wells sweeps in with his characteristic dramatic energy, all flowing scarves and emphatic gestures. "All right, my darlings! Today we begin the real work. Partner scenes for the next six weeks. I've assigned you based on height, energy, and my own mysterious artistic intuition."

He starts reading names off his list. My heart pounds as I wait to hear mine, praying I don't get paired with Dorian. That would be too much—six weeks of forced proximity, intimate scene work, professional requirements that would blur every line I'm trying to maintain with the pack.

"Levine and..." Wells consults his clipboard with a theatrical pause. "Rosen."

My head snaps up. Ben's in this class?

I find him three rows back, looking equally surprised. And pleased.

"You'll be working on contemporary realistic scenes from the provided packet," Wells continues, oblivious to the sudden spike of tension in the room. "I want authentic emotion, truthful behavior, genuine connection between partners. No performance. No indicating. Two human beings in a room, wanting something from each other that they may or may not get."

His eyes sweep the room, landing on me and Ben with what might be deliberate weight. Or maybe I'm paranoid.

"These scenes are intimate work," he says. "You'll be exploring vulnerability, desire, conflict, need. If you can't trust your partner, the work will fail. So I suggest you start building that trust now."

Dorian's scent has gone sharp with displeasure. Even from across the room, I feel it.