Page 32 of His Drama Queen

Thirty feet. Straight drop. Jagged rocks that would split my skull like a melon.

No ledges. No drainpipe. No convenient tree branch. Just a sheer cliff face designed to kill anyone stupid enough to try.

The lake stretches beyond, beautiful in the grey morning light. Mist rising off the water. Forest surrounding us on three sides. Isolated. Perfect.

Perfect prison.

My hands shake as I close the window. The movement sends pain lancing through my torn palms. Blood smears on the white frame—evidence I should clean but can't quite manage.

He planned this. Dorian planned every detail, including giving me this "weak point." Let me waste my energy and hope on an escape that was never real.

The thought makes something hot and vicious coil in my stomach.

"Enjoy your little project?"

I don't turn. Won't give him the satisfaction. Just grip the window frame tighter, my blood making the wood slick.

Dorian's reflection appears in the glass. He's already dressed—expensive casual that probably costs more than my car. Hair damp from his shower. Looking rested and satisfied while I'm running on no sleep and crushing disappointment.

"Didn't think you'd actually fall for it." He leans against the doorframe, all casual confidence. "Corvus said you'd test it first. Oakley thought you'd ask for help. But I knew you'd spend all night working on it yourself."

I turn slowly. "Fuck you."

"Eventually." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "But first, Corvus wants to see you. The study. Twenty minutes."

My stomach drops. "And if I refuse?"

"Then I carry you." He straightens, and even across the bathroom I can smell him—sandalwood and possession. "Your choice."

He leaves. Footsteps fading. Door clicking shut with finality.

I look at myself in the mirror.

Exhausted. Bleeding. Still wearing yesterday's clothes that smell like fear-sweat and desperation. My hair's a mess. Dark circles under my eyes. I look like what I am.

Defeated.

But I'll be damned if I let them see it.

The shower water stings my palms. I watch blood swirl down the drain—pink at first, then clear. Scrub myself with expensive soap that probably costs more than my monthly food budget. Let the hot water ease muscles cramped from hours crouched at the window.

My body aches. Rejection sickness layered over exhaustion over the bone-deep fatigue of fighting a battle I can't win.

I dress carefully. Jeans. Plain black t-shirt. Pull my hair back wet. No makeup. No performance. This is me—Vespera Levine from Franklin, Ohio, whose dad works construction and whose mom left and who earned everything she ever got.

They can't take that.

The walk downstairs feels endless. Each step measured. Deliberate. I'm not hiding. Not sneaking.

I'm walking to my execution with my head high.

The lake house is beautiful in daylight. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase forest and water. Expensive furniture arranged with casual precision—the kind of wealth that doesn't announce itself because it doesn't have to. Art on the walls that's probably worth more than my entire education.

This is their world. Old money. The kind that doesn't just buy things but owns them.

Controls them.

Like me.