Page 195 of His Drama Queen

I was staying.

I reached out and touched the letter one more time. Cream paper soft with age.

Don't be like me. Be stronger.

"I'm not you," I whispered.

Six days until showcase. Six days to prove I could be bonded and free. Omega and powerful. Theirs and mine all at once.

My mother couldn't do it.

But I wasn't my mother.

forty-three

Vespera

Thetheaterwasalreadyalive when I arrived four hours before curtain.

Tech crew swarmed the stage like organized chaos—adjusting lights, testing sound cues, running through scene transitions with military precision. I stood in the wings and let the familiar energy wash over me. This building had heartbeats, and right now it was racing.

Tomorrow night, Broadway scouts would sit in that audience. Tomorrow night, my entire future would be decided by two hours on that stage.

Tonight was my last chance to get it right.

I made my way through the backstage maze to my dressing room. Solo. A luxury reserved for leads, and still strange after months of sharing cramped spaces with the ensemble. My name was on the door in neat block letters: VESPERA LEVINE.

Not "scholarship student." Not "that Omega." My name. My role. My space.

Inside, my costume hung on the rack—period-accurate dress in deep burgundy, laced bodice that would be a bitch to get into alone, layers of fabric that would move beautifully under stage lights. I'd done three fittings to get it perfect. The costume designer had initially tried to give me something more "delicate," more "Omega appropriate."

I'd told her exactly where she could shove her delicate, and she'd given me armor instead.

I sat at the vanity and stared at my reflection. Stage makeup waited in neat rows—foundations, powders, the dramatic eye colors that would make my features visible from the back row. My claiming marks were stark against my throat, permanent evidence of everything that had happened in the past two weeks.

Tomorrow, everyone would see them. The scouts. The donors. Faculty who'd watched me fight for every opportunity. Students who'd whispered about the scholarship Omega who thought she was special.

Let them see. Let them know I'd survived the claiming and come back stronger.

My phone buzzed. Dorian:We're here. Where do you want us?

Right. I'd agreed they could come to dress rehearsal. But on my terms.

Me:House seats. Back row. Don't interrupt tech notes.

Three dots appeared, then:Whatever you need.

I stared at that response. Two weeks ago, Dorian would have shown up anyway, sat wherever he wanted, made his presence impossible to ignore. Now he was asking permission. Following boundaries.

Growth was fucking weird.

Iemergedfromthedressing room forty minutes later, costume on, makeup done, hair pinned in the elaborate updo that took me three YouTube tutorials to master. The stage manager did a double-take when she saw me.

"Holy shit, Vespera."

"Too much?"

"Not enough." She grinned. "You look like you could murder someone and make it look good."