Page 30 of The Drama King

"Document everything," I replied automatically. "Record rehearsals, note every inappropriate comment, build the case."

"That's defensive," Robbie pointed out. "What about offense? How do we turn this assignment into a weapon against them?"

I considered the question, my mind racing through possibilities. "The submission scene is controversial for good reason. Katherine's final speech can be played multiple ways. Sincere submission, bitter sarcasm, strategic manipulation."

"You could subvert the entire power dynamic," Stephanie said, catching on. "Make Katherine the one with real control."

"Exactly. Shakespeare gives her the longest speech in the play. She dominates the scene, even while supposedly submitting." I felt the first stirring of genuine excitement since hearing the assignment. "If I play it right, I can make Petruchio look like a fool."

"Dangerous," Robbie warned. "If you humiliate Dorian publicly, there will be consequences."

"There are already consequences," I pointed out. "At least this way, I will go down fighting."

I had planning to do. If Dorian Ashworth wanted to explore power and vulnerability, I'd give him a masterclass in both.

The only question was which of us would emerge victorious when the curtain fell.

twelve

Dorian

StudioChadbeencarefully prepared. I'd arrived an hour early, adjusting the space to maximize psychological advantage. The overhead fluorescents were off, replaced by the warm amber of the rehearsal lights that created intimate pools of illumination and shadow. I'd pushed the mirrors to optimal angles—she'd be unable to escape her own reflection, forced to watch herself submit from every angle.

I checked my watch. She'd arrive precisely at seven—not a minute early to seem eager, not a second late to give me ammunition. In the week since the casting announcement, she'd maintained that infuriating professional composure, treating our partnership like any other assignment.

She didn't understand yet that this was different. This was personal.

The door opened and Vespera Levine entered with her usual forced confidence, her blazer pristine, her script annotated withcolorful tabs. The rehearsal room's intimate lighting caught the gold in her hair, making her look even more vulnerable. Her jasmine scent preceded her, cut with the sharp tang of anxiety she couldn't quite suppress.

"Dorian," she said, her voice carefully neutral. "Thank you for booking the space."

As if this were a normal rehearsal. As if I hadn't specifically chosen the most isolated studio in the building.

"Of course," I replied, letting my sandalwood scent expand to fill the room—dominant, inescapable. "We have significant work ahead of us."

She set down her bag. I noticed she positioned it near the door. An escape route. Smart girl. Not that it would help her.

"I've done extensive research on the scene," she began, pulling out her thoroughly annotated script. "There are several scholarly interpretations of Katherine's final speech that suggest—"

"Perform it," I interrupted.

She blinked. "What?"

"The monologue. Perform it for me now. No discussion, no analysis. Just show me what you've prepared."

A flash of indignation crossed her features before she smoothed them back to professional neutrality. "Without blocking? Without context?"

"Katherine doesn't get context," I said, standing slowly, letting my full height register. "She's been broken by this point in the play. Tamed. She speaks from pure submission. Show me that."

Her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Fine."

She moved to the center of the room, took a breath, and began. Her interpretation was technically proficient but deliberately subversive, she played Katherine's submission as performance, each word dripping with barely concealed sarcasm.

"Fie, fie, unknit that threatening unkind brow..." The words were correct, but her eyes remained defiant, her posture proud rather than yielding.

I circled her slowly as she spoke, noting how she tracked my movement peripherally, never quite relaxing her guard. When she reached "Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper," I stepped directly into her space, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact.

"Stop," I commanded.