Page 23 of His Drama Queen

"I'm fine."

"Liar." But he says it gently, his hands steady on my waist as we move through the combination. He's essentially dancing for both of us, making my stumbles look intentional, my weakness look like artistic choice.

After class, he walks me to the café. Orders for both of us. Watches me pick at a bagel I can't swallow.

"We should talk about what happens when—"

"When I die?" I interrupt. "We don't. We run lines, we rehearse, we pretend everything's normal."

"That's not—"

"Ben." I take his hand across the table. My fingers twitch involuntarily—a new symptom. "Please. Just give me today. One more normal day."

He squeezes my fingers. "You're having micro-seizures. I can feel them."

"I know."

"We're going to the ER. Right now."

"After tonight's rehearsal."

"Vespera—"

"Please." My voice cracks. "Let me finish the run-through. Let me do this one last thing. Then you can take me wherever you want."

He studies my face for a long moment. "Promise me. Right after rehearsal, we go to the hospital."

"I promise," I lie.

"And you'll call your dad? Let him know what's happening?"

"Sure," I lie again.

He seems satisfied, but then adds, "You know, my ex was an Omega. She used to do this thing where she'd promise stuff just to avoid conflict."

The comparison stings, even though he doesn't mean it to. "I'm not your ex."

"I know. You're stronger." He pauses. "But sometimes being strong means accepting help."

It's sweet. He's sweet. But there's something about the way he says it—like he's already figured me out, already knows what's best—that reminds me why Beta-Omega relationships rarely work. They want to help. Alphas want to possess. Neither really understands the need to simply survive.

Theafternoonrehearsalisperfect.

Maybe because I know it's my last one. Maybe because my body has stopped fighting and given me these final hours of clarity. Or maybe because Ben and I have found something real in our stage chemistry, something that transcends the Greek tragedy we're performing.

"Of all the humans that live and have minds, we women are the most wretched creatures," I declare as Medea, and every woman in the room leans forward.

My left hand goes numb mid-monologue. I switch the prop dagger to my right without missing a beat.

Ben's Jason is magnificent in his casual cruelty, his entitled certainty that I should accept his betrayal gracefully. When he says "You should have thought of the children," the temperature in the room drops.

"The children," I say, letting Medea's madness creep into my voice, "will be better off dead than living with your betrayal."

My vision whites out for two seconds during his response. When it comes back, Ben has shifted position slightly, ready to catch me if I fall. He's been doing it all rehearsal—tiny adjustments to support me without the directors noticing.

We run the scene where Medea gives Jason the poisoned gifts for his new bride. My hands shake as I hand over the props—not from acting, but from my body failing. Ben grabs my wrists, turning my tremor into Medea's suppressed rage, holding me steady when my knees buckle for just a moment.

"You're brilliant," Marcus says when we finish. "Both of you. This is going to be extraordinary."