Page 17 of The Drama King
"You knew," I said, reducing voice to near-whisper, approximating the cadence of internal thought. "In your heart, in your body, you knew what he was doing. The way he looked at others, the way his attention wandered, the way he touched you differently afterward. You felt it all and chose to ignore it."
Her autonomic responses confirmed effective penetration of psychological defenses—pupil dilation, microexpression of pain, increased respiratory rate.
"That's not in the script," she said, vocal stability compromised.
"But it's in the subtext," I continued, implementing circular movement to increase disorientation. "Elizabeth's entire arc is built on the foundation of willful blindness, the choice to not see what would destroy her carefully constructed world."
"Stop," she said, but the command lacked force.
I continued the pressure application. "He used you. Made you complicit in his deception, forced you to be the good wife, the understanding woman, while he pursued his appetites elsewhere. And the worst part is that you let him, because the alternative was admitting that everything you'd built your life on was a lie."
"I said stop."
Her voice transformed, carrying unexpected authority. I paused, analyzing the response. Rather than collapsing under pressure, she had accessed deeper emotional reserves. This was methodologically significant.
"Better. That's the emotion the scene needs. Fear and fury and desperate determination to protect something precious."
Her realization was visible—the moment she understood the calculated nature of my approach. Anger replaced vulnerability, a more manageable emotional state for most subjects.
"You bastard," she said, the vulgarity indicating emotional destabilization.
"I'm a thorough scene partner," I corrected, reframing the interaction within acceptable academic parameters. "Great art requires risk, vulnerability, the willingness to be broken open in service of truth. If you're not prepared for that level of commitment, perhaps you should reconsider whether you belong in this program."
The implicit threat was calibrated to trigger insecurity about academic standing, typically the most effective pressure point for scholarship students.
"I can handle whatever this role requires," she replied, struggling to regulate vocal stability. "But I won't be manipulated or emotionally abused in the name of artistic truth."
"Such rigid boundaries," I observed. "How limiting for an artist. The greatest performers throughout history have been willing to sacrifice comfort, safety, even sanity in pursuit of authentic expression."
"The greatest performers have also maintained their sense of self," she countered. "They transform themselves for their art, but they don't allow others to destroy them in the process."
We faced each other, tension radiating between us. Her response pattern required significant reassessment. Most subjects either collapsed under sustained pressure or retreated into hostile defensiveness. She had done neither, instead articulating a coherent philosophical position that challenged my methodological assumptions.
"An admirable philosophy," I conceded, gathering my materials to end the session. "We'll see how well it serves you as the work becomes more demanding."
"Same time next week," I said at the door, embedding final pressure suggestion. "I suggest you spend the interval considering how far you're truly willing to go for your art.The scene's emotional climax requires complete vulnerability. There's no room for self-protection when everything is at stake."
As I walked away, I found myself mentally replaying aspects of our exchange that were not directly relevant to tactical objectives. Her unexpected resilience represented a statistical anomaly worth further study. But more concerning was the momentary lapse in my own analytical detachment—a flash of genuine respect for her intellectual framework that had no place in proper psychological warfare.
I would need to recalibrate before our next encounter. The data gathering was proceeding effectively, but certain unexpected variables required closer monitoring.
Particularly the unscheduled acceleration in my own heart rate when she had stood her ground and met my gaze without flinching.
Purely physiological, I assured myself. Nothing more.
seven
Oakley
Theprivategyminthe east wing of the Ashworth estate was state-of-the-art, like everything else the family owned. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the manicured grounds, though the glass was tinted to prevent anyone from looking in. Not that privacy was a concern on an estate this size—the nearest neighbors were acres away, and staff knew better than to disturb Dorian during his workouts.
I spotted him across the room, his form perfect as always while he bench pressed. Sweat glistened on his forearms, the veins prominent as he controlled the weight with practiced precision. I'd been watching him for longer than I should have, pretending to focus on my own workout.
"You're staring again," he said without breaking rhythm, not even glancing in my direction.
"Just making sure your form doesn't slip," I replied, moving closer to spot him. The scent of his exertion—sandalwoodintensified by physical effort—hit me harder than it should have. Eleven years of friendship, and I still hadn't built up immunity to his presence.
"My form never slips." He completed his set and sat up, wiping his face with a towel. His eyes finally met mine, that familiar intensity making my pulse jump. "You're the one who needs to watch your positioning. Your shoulders drop when you're tired."