Page 220 of His Drama Queen

"I got cast in an off-off-Broadway showcase," Oakley adds. "Starts next week. Tiny theater, no pay, but it's stage time. And I got a day job waiting tables to cover rent."

"That's amazing," I say.

"It's a start," he corrects. "I'll audition, do showcases, build my resume the hard way. It'll take longer than Northwood's connections would have, but I'll do it without family money. Without owing anyone."

"I secured a consulting contract," Corvus says. "Data analysis for a startup. Fully remote, thirty hours a week, enough to cover my portion of rent and expenses."

I look at the three of them—my pack, figuring out New York, building something real.

"We're doing it," I say. "We're actually making this work."

"For now," Dorian says. "Ask me again in three months when winter hits and heating costs triple."

"We'll figure it out," Oakley says. "Same way we're figuring out everything else."

"Together," Corvus adds.

Together. The word settles into my chest, warm and real.

The next three weeks blur together in a chaos of rehearsals and work and learning to be adults without safety nets. Thestudio apartment becomes home in ways Northwood never did—cramped and loud and messy, but ours.

Dorian masters the coffee maker and becomes our morning person, brewing terrible coffee at six AM while the rest of us stumble around in various states of consciousness. Oakley cooks when he has time, simple meals that stretch our grocery budget and taste like actual food. Corvus creates spreadsheets for everything—expenses, schedules, optimal subway routes—because apparently romance doesn't cure his need to quantify reality.

I rehearse and perfect and push myself harder than I ever did at Northwood. Marcus Bellamy doesn't accept "good enough." He demands transcendent, and I give it to him every single day.

Eleanor calls twice more. I don't answer. She sends letters—actual physical letters delivered to the theater—offering money, opportunities, forgiveness if I'll just "be reasonable."

I burn them.

Then, two weeks before opening night, something changes.

I'm running through Act Three when Vivian Strasberg appears in the back of the theater. She watches for ten minutes, then signals Marcus.

They have a conversation I can't hear. Then Marcus calls break and Vivian approaches me.

"Walk with me," she says.

We step outside into the cold November air. Brooklyn looks gray and industrial in the afternoon light, nothing like the romanticized version I'd imagined.

"You're good," Vivian says without preamble. "Better than I expected, and my expectations were high."

"Thank you?"

"That performance at Northwood—the public claiming, the speech, the sheer audacity—that was marketing gold. Two million views and climbing. People are talking about you." Shelights a cigarette, offers me one. I decline. "But here's the thing about being famous for being difficult. It works once. Maybe twice. After that, you need to back it up with talent."

"And?" I ask.

"And you have it." She takes a drag. "The talent. The presence. The fire. Marcus thinks you're the best actor he's worked with in five years, and he's a miserable bastard who never compliments anyone."

"So what's the problem?"

"No problem. An opportunity." Vivian meets my eyes. "This show runs for six weeks. If the reviews are good—and they will be, because you're phenomenal and the script is tight—we'll extend. Maybe transfer to a larger theater. Maybe even Broadway in a year or two."

My heart stops. "Broadway?"

"Don't get ahead of yourself," she warns. "That's years away. But the trajectory is there. If you want it. If you're willing to work for it. If you can handle the pressure of being the 'difficult Omega who claimed three Alphas on stage' while also being a serious artist."

"I can handle it," I say immediately.