Page 17 of His Drama Queen

He reaches across the table, his hand covering mine. The touch doesn't burn like theirs did, doesn't make my body light upwith unwanted need. It's just... warm. Human. Kind. "You're the strongest person I've ever met," he says simply.

"You just met me three hours ago."

"Still true."

We walk back to the dorms slowly, him matching my pace without comment. At my door, he pauses.

"Callbacks tomorrow. You're going to be incredible."

"How do you know?"

"Because anyone who can walk away from a pack bond can certainly handle a Greek tragedy." He grins, hands spreading in a ta-da gesture. "Plus, I have excellent taste in scene partners."

After he leaves, collapsing on the bed happens fully clothed. My phone has seventeen new messages from Stephanie, all deleted unread.

The marks throb in unison with my heartbeat. The fever that never quite breaks makes the room feel too hot, then too cold. Every cell in my body screams that I'm in the wrong place, that I need to go back, that I'm dying by degrees.

But tomorrow I audition for Medea. Tomorrow I start becoming someone else, someone who isn't dying of rejection, someone who takes control of her own narrative.

Sleep comes with the script clutched close, dreams full of a woman who loved too much and chose destruction over submission.

The parallels aren't lost on me.

Thecallbackroomsmellslike nervous sweat and ambition.

Twenty of us made the first cut for the main roles. Ben's across the room, already in character as Jason, that easy charm transformed into arrogance. He catches my eye and winks, breaking character for just a moment, hands making a tiny encouraging gesture.

"Vespera Levine," Marcus calls. "You're up."

Walking to the center of the room happens, my body protesting every step. Food hasn't stayed down since yesterday's grilled cheese. The fever spiked again this morning, high enough that sitting in a cold shower was necessary just to function. But none of that matters now.

"Whenever you're ready," Marcus says.

Eyes close, letting Medea fill the spaces where Vespera is broken. When they open, I'm not a rejected omega dying of biological imperative.

I'm a woman betrayed. A force of nature. A destroyer of worlds.

"Of all things upon the earth that bleed and grow, a herb most bruised is woman."

The words pour out, not performed but lived. Every ounce of rage at what they did to me, every moment of pain from the rejection, every second of having my autonomy stripped away—it all channels through Medea's ancient fury.

"We women are the most wretched. When we have bought a husband with our wealth, we must then accept him as the master of our body. For this is an even more painful wrong. And the outcome of our life's striving hangs on this, whether we take a good or bad husband."

This isn't acting anymore. This is testifying. Ben, reading as Jason, actually takes a step back from the force of it.

"But when a man grows tired of the company at home, he goes elsewhere and relieves the burden of his heart, turning to afriend or someone his own age. But we must fix our gaze on one person only."

My voice breaks on the last words, but it works, makes Medea human in her inhuman rage. The room is silent when I finish.

"Thank you," Marcus says, but his eyes are bright with something like recognition. "Ben, let's run the confrontation scene."

We do, and it's electric. Every accusation Medea hurls, every justification Jason makes—it's us and them, it's every woman who's been told her pain is worth less than a man's convenience, it's specifically me and three Alphas who thought biology gave them ownership.

"Cast list will be posted tonight," Marcus says when we're done. "Rehearsals begin immediately for those cast."

Outside, Ben catches up with me. "Holy shit, Vespera. That was..." His hands spread wide, unable to find words big enough. "I've never seen anything like that."

"You were good too," I manage, though the performance has drained what little energy I had.