Page 58 of The Drama King

My phone buzzed as I walked toward the theater building:Studio B-12. After dinner. Don't make me come find you. - D

The message sent shivers down my spine, but what choice did I have? Professor Blackwell had made it clear that my academic survival depended on "collaboration" with Dorian. The complaint I'd filed had been dismissed so thoroughly it felt like it had never existed.

I spent the intervening hours in the library, trying to focus on end-of-semester assignments, but my mind kept cycling through the meeting with Professor Blackwell. The careful language, the predetermined conclusions, the way my account had been systematically dismantled. It felt like being gaslit on an institutional level.

As evening approached, I made my way to the theater building's basement level, still in my school uniform. Studio B-12 was tucked away in a corner, accessed through a maze of storage rooms and maintenance corridors. Soundproof, private, invisible to casual foot traffic.

Perfect for whatever Dorian had planned.

The door was already propped open when I arrived, warm light spilling into the dim hallway. I hesitated at the threshold, every instinct screaming at me to run. But Professor Blackwell's words echoed in my mind:Your future in theater would benefit from finding a way to work collaboratively.

I stepped inside.

"You're punctual," Dorian said, not looking up from where he was arranging two chairs in the center of the small room. His school uniform was still perfectly pressed despite the late hour, the charcoal blazer emphasizing his broad shoulders. "Good. We have a lot of work to cover."

The space felt intimate, almost claustrophobic. Mirrored walls reflected our images back infinitely, and the single door behind me seemed to close with finality even though I hadn't touched it.

"Professor Blackwell said you wanted to work on the garden scene," I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

"Among other things." His ice-blue eyes met mine in the mirror, and I saw something there that made my pulse quicken with both fear and unwanted anticipation. "But first, I think we need to address what happened after you filed that complaint."

My breath caught. "I don't know what you mean."

"Don't you?" He turned to face me directly, his sandalwood scent already beginning to fill the small space. "The administrative review, the careful dismissal of your concerns, the way your academic future was subtly threatened if you continued to be... uncooperative."

"How did you—"

"Know about your meeting with McArthur? With Blackwell?" His smile was sharp. "My family's donations to this department buy more than just naming rights, Vespera. They buy influence. Access. Protection."

The casual admission of corruption sent rage flaring through me. "You had them dismiss my complaint."

"I had them recognize reality," he corrected, moving closer with predatory grace. "That a scholarship Omega who bites the hand that feeds her won't survive long in this industry."

"And if I refuse to play along with your games?"

"Then your promising theater career ends here." His Alpha presence began to press against my psychological defenses, making my breath quicken involuntarily. "But if you're smart, and I know you are, you'll realize this doesn't have to be adversarial."

"What are you suggesting?"

His smile widened, showing teeth. "A different kind of collaboration. One where we both get what we need."

The heat in his eyes, the predatory way he was looking at me, made my body respond despite every rational thought. My breathing quickened, and I caught his scent deepening with satisfaction as he noticed.

"The garden scene," I said quickly, grasping for professional ground. "We should work on—"

"We will," he said softly, now close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his body. "But first, let me show you what intelligent surrender actually looks like."

Before I could protest, he was moving, closing the distance between us with that liquid grace that made my knees weak. His hands came up to frame my face, thumbs brushing across my cheekbones with surprising gentleness.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured, his breath warm against my lips. "Say no, and we'll run lines until nine o'clock like good little students."

I opened my mouth to do exactly that, but no words came. Because despite everything—the harassment, the manipulation, the institutional betrayal—my body wanted this. Wanted him. The months of psychological pressure had created pathways in my nervous system that his proximity activated automatically.

"I can't," I whispered, and we both knew I wasn't talking about the scene anymore.

"I know," he said, and then his mouth was on mine.

The kiss was consuming, desperate, months of tension exploding between us in a rush of heat and need. His hands fisted in my hair, angling my head exactly where he wanted it, and I melted into him with a whimper that should have embarrassed me but only seemed to drive him wilder.