Page 2 of The Drama King
She extended a hand covered in colorful string bracelets, her smile refreshingly authentic after the administration building's chilly reception. Her uniform had been subtly modified: several enamel pins decorated her blazer, and she'd shortened the standard gray skirt.
"Vespera Levine," I replied, shaking her hand gratefully. "Acting focus. And scholarship recipient, which apparently comes with its own special orientation requirements."
"Ugh, they're still doing that segregated orientation bullshit?" Stephanie rolled her eyes, dropping her expensive backpack on the unoccupied bed. "My parents think it's ridiculous. Dad says it's institutional hazing disguised as 'mentorship.'"
Her casual mention of parental opinions reminded me that while I was here on full scholarship, she was a paying customer with family expectations and financial backing. The difference in our situations was already apparent. Her belongings were clearly expensive, from the professional-grade art supplies to the latest tablet for digital design work.
"So your family's in the arts?" I asked as we unpacked.
"Dad's in finance, private equity stuff, and Mom runs an art gallery in the city. They wanted me to have the 'full college experience' instead of commuting from home." She gesturedtoward the window. "They live in Havenhill Estates, like twenty minutes away, but insisted I live on campus."
Havenhill Estates. I'd seen the signs driving in. The casual way she mentioned it told me everything about her family's financial situation.
"What about you?" she asked, hanging fairy lights above her bed with practiced efficiency.
"My dad and me. He runs the community theater back home, does everything from directing to building sets. Mom left when I was ten." I kept my voice matter-of-fact, not wanting pity. "He worked extra jobs to pay for voice lessons and acting classes."
Stephanie's expression shifted. Not pity, but understanding. She paused in her unpacking, studying me with new seriousness. "There's something you should know about the theater department. There's this pack of Alpha juniors, three guys who basically run the place like their personal kingdom. They have a... history... with scholarship students."
The way she said "history" made my stomach clench. "What kind of history?"
"The kind that ends with medical withdrawals and transfer paperwork," she said quietly. "The pack leader is Dorian Ashworth. His family funded the new theater wing, so he's basically untouchable. His pack includes Corvus Barclay, whose family has serious political connections, and Oakley Sinclair from old Southern money."
She pulled out her phone, showing me a screenshot from the university website. Three devastatingly handsome young men in formal wear, arms around each other at some gala event. Even in a still photograph, their presence was commanding. They had stepped off a magazine cover, all sharp jawlines and confident smiles.
"The last scholarship Omega lasted one semester," Stephanie continued. "Officially, she transferred for 'family reasons,' but word is they made her life hell until she broke."
My hands stilled on my unpacking. "They target Omega scholarship students specifically?"
"It's like some kind of twisted game to them. They pick one, usually someone they see as competition for roles or attention. Then they systematically destroy their confidence until they leave." Her expression darkened. "The faculty either don't see it or don't care, because the Ashworth family could buy and sell this entire university."
Fear threaded through my excitement, but I pushed it down. I hadn't fought my way to Northwood to be scared off by entitled bullies, no matter how handsome or well-connected they were.
"Well, they'll find I'm not that easy to intimidate," I said with more conviction than I felt.
Stephanie looked skeptical but nodded. "Stay close to me, okay? And there's this guy Robbie Gao. He's an Omega junior, but his parents own Gao Pharmaceutical, so the pack can't touch him. We could introduce you."
I nodded.
"Robbie's a good ally to have," she continued, pulling out textbooks. "His family has board connections, and he's sweet as hell. The pack learned early not to mess with kids whose parents could destroy their futures with a phone call."
The implication was clear. I had no such protection. My father's community theater connections wouldn't matter here. I was truly on my own.
Byevening,I'dcompletedmy room setup and reviewed my class schedule. Acting Technique with Professor Blackwell started at nine AM, my first real test. According to my course roster, all three pack members were in this class, too. Apparently mixed-year classes were common here. Great.
The mandatory welcome dinner was held in the grand dining hall, a cathedral to privilege with soaring ceilings, stained glass windows, and long tables of polished mahogany. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over students clustered by obvious social hierarchies. The loudest, most central table held a group of upperclassmen Alphas whose confident laughter carried across the room.
"That's them," Stephanie murmured as we found seats with other first-years at a table near the back. "Dorian's pack."
My eyes followed her subtle gesture to where three young men held court like royalty. Even from a distance, their presence was magnetic. All Alphas carried inherent authority, but these three amplified each other, creating a gravitational pull that affected everyone nearby. They possessed the confident assurance of established campus royalty, not uncertain freshmen still finding their place.
Dorian Ashworth sat in the center like a king. He was heartbreakingly beautiful in the classical sense: dark hair falling in perfect waves, aristocratic features that belonged on a Renaissance sculpture, and a lazy smile that suggested he was accustomed to worship. Those ice-blue eyes surveyed the room with casual authority. His uniform had the cut and drape of bespoke designer wear despite being identical to everyone else's, and he'd styled it with calculated rebellion. Loosened tie, one shirt button undone, rule-breaking that no one would dare challenge.
"The strategic one is Corvus," Stephanie whispered, nodding toward the pale-eyed Alpha. "He's the planner. Oakley'ssupposed to be the 'nice' one, but that means he smiles while destroying you."
To his left sat a leaner, sharper-featured Alpha whose pale eyes calculated and cataloged everything around him. Corvus Barclay wore his uniform perfectly, every line crisp, his tie knotted with mathematical precision. Even relaxed, he radiated the cold intelligence of someone who treated social interaction like chess.
The third member was broader and golden-haired, with the kind of easy charm that drew people in like moths to flame. Oakley Sinclair had rolled his sleeves to reveal tanned forearms, another small rebellion that had the naturalness of effortless confidence and ease. His smile had genuine warmth, which somehow made him more dangerous than the others.