Page 46 of His Drama Queen

The shift throws me. "What?"

"You asked me about my family once. Before." Her voice goes distant. Hollow. "I told you she left. Never said why."

I press my palm flat against the door. Like I can feel her through it.

"I used to think it was my fault," she continues. "That I was too loud. Too dramatic. Too much. Thought if I'd been quieter, better, less... maybe she would've stayed."

Something in my chest twists.

"Then I presented. Omega." She takes a shaky breath that I can hear even through the wood. "And Dad still won't talk about her. Won't tell me anything. But sometimes I wonder..."

"Wonder what?"

"If she was omega too. If that's why she left." Her voice cracks. "Maybe she knew what would happen to me. Maybe she saw this coming and couldn't bear to watch."

I close my eyes. Lean my head back against the door.

"Or maybe she just couldn't take it anymore," Vespera says quietly. "Being someone's omega. Being claimed. Being owned. Maybe she ran and never looked back because staying meant losing herself completely."

A pause. Then softer: "Maybe that's why Dad never talks about her. Because once someone takes your choices, you can't ever really get them back, can you? Even if you escape, you're still the girl who was kept. The omega who couldn't get away."

"I'm sorry." The words are useless. Pathetic.

"You're not sorry you did it. You're sorry I'm not grateful for it."

The accuracy cuts. "That's not—"

"Isn't it?" She laughs, broken and sharp. "You took me because you wanted me. Because biology said you could. Because somewhere in your fucked-up Ashworth worldview, claiming what you want is the same as earning it."

Every word is a knife. Every word is deserved.

"I watched you on that stage," I say quietly. "Freshman year. Before you presented. Before any of this."

Silence.

"You were auditioning for something. Some play I don't even remember. But I remember you. The way you commanded that space. Made everyone believe." I press my hand harder against the door. "And I wanted that. Wanted someone who could make me feel something real instead of this endless performance of being an Ashworth."

"So you decided to own me?"

"No. I decided—" I stop. Start over. "I don't know what I decided. Can't remember anymore. Can't separate wanting you from needing you from the biology that says you're mine."

"I'm not yours."

"I know." The admission tastes like ash. "But I don't know how to stop wanting you to be."

Long silence on the other side. Six inches of wood and an ocean of harm I caused.

"I'm sorry," I say. Useless. Inadequate. "For all of it. I'm so fucking sorry."

"Sorry doesn't fix anything, Dorian."

"I know."

"Sorry doesn't give me back my callback. My dreams. My future. My self."

"I know."

"Sorry doesn't change the fact that you stole my life because biology said you could."