Page 55 of The Drama King

I'd dismissed him with a wave, unwilling to entertain doubts. "Go to your room, Oakley. We'll regroup tomorrow."

Now, alone in the darkness, I found myself replaying the night's events with obsessive precision. The theater, the carefully orchestrated seating arrangement, the isolation from her Beta protector, the car, the warehouse lot. All meticulously planned. And yet, she'd escaped. The scholarship Omega with no connections, no resources, no pack protection had somehow managed to slip through our fingers.

My phone vibrated on the desk, pulling me from my thoughts. Corvus, checking in.

"Any word from your contacts?" I answered without preamble.

"Nothing official yet," came his measured response. "But there's definitely movement. Campus security logged an incident report earlier today, and I heard whispers about Title IX involvement."

My grip tightened on the phone. "How serious?"

"Serious enough that my father's legal team is already on standby," Corvus replied. "They're confident they can contain this, but it'll require... strategic intervention."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning we let the adults handle the institutional side while we focus on damage control." His voice carried that calculating tone I knew well. "The key is ensuring Miss Levine understands that escalation serves no one's interests."

I nodded, even though he couldn't see me. "Keep me informed of any developments."

"Of course. Though Dorian?" A pause. "This was sloppy. We can't afford another miscalculation like tonight."

The line went dead before I could respond.

I sat motionless, phone still pressed to my ear, as his words sank in. For the first time since starting at Northwood, I'd been spoken to not as Dorian Ashworth, Alpha heir, but as a student facing disciplinary action. The novelty of it was almost fascinating.

twenty-one

Vespera

TheNovemberwindcutthrough my coat as I hurried across campus toward the administration building, fallen leaves swirling around my feet in the pre-Thanksgiving gloom. Two days had passed since the theater outing incident, two days of hiding in Stephanie and Robbie's off-campus sanctuary while trying to process what had happened in that abandoned parking lot.

The physical evidence was undeniable. Fading bruises on my throat, scratches on my palms from the rough pavement, the psychological trauma that made me jump at every unexpected sound. But translating that evidence into institutional action felt impossible when facing the towering brick facade of Whitmore Hall, where generations of wealthy alumni had donated their way to influence.

"You don't have to do this alone," Stephanie said, matching my pace despite her obvious concern. "I can come in with you."

"Better if you wait outside," I replied, my breath forming small clouds in the cold air. "They're more likely to dismiss this if it looks like I need someone to hold my hand."

Robbie had wanted to come too, but we'd agreed his presence might complicate things. Male Omegas faced their own prejudices in administrative settings, and his pale, post-heat exhaustion would only provide ammunition for anyone looking to discredit our account.

The building's interior was all marble and mahogany, designed to intimidate rather than welcome. Portrait paintings of distinguished donors lined the walls. Predominantly Alpha men in expensive suits, their eyes following me with painted disapproval as I approached the information desk.

"I need to speak with someone about filing a formal complaint," I told the receptionist, a middle-aged Beta woman whose expression immediately grew guarded.

"What kind of complaint?" she asked, fingers hovering over her computer keyboard.

"Designation-based harassment and physical assault by fellow students."

The typing stopped. She looked up at me with barely concealed wariness, as if I'd just announced I was carrying a contagious disease.

"One moment," she said, picking up her phone. After a brief, whispered conversation, she gestured toward a cluster of chairs. "Someone will be with you shortly."

The wait stretched into forty-five minutes, long enough for my initial adrenaline to fade into anxious exhaustion. Other students came and went. Mostly Alphas and Betas handling routine academic business with efficient courtesy. My presence seemed to create an invisible barrier, causing conversations to drop to whispers and eyes to avoid direct contact.

"Ms. Levine?" A woman in her fifties appeared at my side, her tailored suit and confident bearing marking her as administration. "I'm Assistant Dean McArthur. Would you please come with me?"

Her office was smaller than I'd expected, cramped with filing cabinets and academic certifications. She gestured for me to sit in an uncomfortable wooden chair while she settled behind her desk with a legal pad and careful expression.

"Now then," she began, pen poised, "I understand you wish to file a complaint regarding interactions with fellow students?"