Page 57 of The Drama King

"Ves—"

"No." I turned to face her fully, something crystallizing in my chest. "They think I'll just disappear, transfer out like all the other scholarship students they've broken. But I earned my place here, and I'm not leaving."

"Even knowing what they're capable of?"

I thought of the parking lot, of Dorian's hands around my throat, of the calculated cruelty in Corvus's eyes. Then I thought of my Lady Macbeth performance, of the standing ovation, of Professor Goldman mentioning graduate programs.

"Especially knowing what they're capable of," I said. "Because now I know exactly what I'm fighting."

As we walked back across campus, the late November wind cutting through our coats, I felt something shift inside me. The frightened scholarship student was still there, but she was no longer driving. Instead, there was someone harder, more determined. Someone who understood that survival at Northwood would require strategy, patience, and the willingness to play a longer game than my tormentors anticipated.

They had the institution. They had wealth and influence and generations of privilege.

But I had something they'd never expected me to develop: the knowledge that they were afraid of me. Afraid enough to risk criminal charges. Afraid enough to involve their families' legal teams.

That fear was my weapon now. I just had to learn how to use it.

twenty-two

Vespera

ProfessorBlackwell'sofficefeltsmaller than usual, the early December afternoon light filtering weakly through frost-covered windows. Two weeks had passed since my disastrous meeting with Assistant Dean McArthur, two weeks of increasingly pointed "suggestions" from faculty that I reconsider my position. Now, sitting across from Blackwell's mahogany desk with my hands folded in my lap to hide their trembling, I waited for her to finish reading whatever document had prompted this urgent meeting.

"I'm sorry, Miss Levine," she said finally, setting down the papers with a heavy sigh. "The complaint you filed has been... administratively resolved."

The careful phrasing sent ice through my veins. "Resolved how?"

"The review committee found insufficient evidence to proceed with formal disciplinary action." Her voice was professionallyneutral, but something flickered in her eyes. Frustration, perhaps, or disappointment. "The incidents you described were deemed to fall within the normal parameters of intensive academic theater training."

I stared at her, unable to process what I was hearing. "Normal parameters?"

"Vigorous critique, challenging physical exercises, competitive academic pressure..." She gestured vaguely. "The committee acknowledged that Mr. Ashworth's teaching methods are... intense... but found no violation of university conduct policies."

"He put his hands around my throat."

"During a stage combat exercise, according to his account. With proper safety protocols observed and multiple witnesses present." Professor Blackwell's expression tightened almost imperceptibly. "The committee found his version of events more... consistent... with established pedagogical practices."

The dismissal was so complete, so thoroughly orchestrated, that I felt dizzy. "What about the other incidents? The harassment, the attempted abduction—"

"Miss Levine." Her voice cut through my protest gently but firmly. "I understand your frustration. But sometimes in intensive academic environments, personal conflicts can be misinterpreted as institutional problems."

She leaned forward, her expression becoming more personal. "You're exceptionally talented. Your Lady Macbeth was extraordinary, and your upcoming Beatrice shows tremendous promise. But talent alone isn't enough in this industry. You need to learn to navigate complex professional relationships without... complications."

"Complications," I repeated numbly.

"The Ashworth family has been instrumental in this department's success. Dorian specifically has shown remarkable leadership potential and will likely graduate summa cum laude."She paused meaningfully. "Your future in theater would benefit from finding a way to work collaboratively rather than... contentiously."

The subtext was clear: stop fighting them or your career ends here.

"I understand," I said quietly.

"Good." Her smile was sympathetic but final. "Now, about tonight's rehearsal. Dorian requested additional practice time for the garden scene from Much Ado About Nothing. I've reserved Studio B-12 in the basement level for you both. It's quieter, more conducive to detailed character work."

My stomach dropped. "Just the two of us?"

"Individual scene work is crucial at this stage of production. Dorian specifically mentioned that your chemistry as Beatrice and Benedick needs... refinement." She made a note in her calendar. "After dinner. Don't be late."

I left her office feeling hollow, the university's marble hallways seeming to stretch endlessly in all directions. The administrative machine had spoken, and I'd been crushed beneath its wheels so efficiently I barely understood what had happened.