Page 83 of The Drama King

I understood. Self-preservation wasn't selfish when the alternative was getting dragged down with someone else's mistakes. But it still stung, watching another piece of my support system crumble under external pressure.

"Speaking of the future," I said, changing the subject before the silence got uncomfortable, "I got Beatrice in the spring showcase."

"Vespera, that's amazing!" Stephanie's face lit up, momentarily forgetting her family drama. "That's the lead role, right? With the Broadway director?"

"Yeah. It's a big opportunity."

She must have caught something in my tone because her enthusiasm dimmed. "But?"

"Dorian got Benedick."

The words hung in the air between us like a death sentence. Stephanie knew enough about my history with Dorian to understand why this was a disaster, even if she didn't know all the details.

"Can you request a different pairing? Talk to someone about the harassment?"

I laughed bitterly. "With what proof? Everything he's done has been technically within professional bounds. Requesting a cast change would make me look unprofessional, and I can't afford that reputation."

"Then what are you going to do?"

"Survive it." The words came out harsher than I intended. "Eight weeks of rehearsals, then the performance, then it's over."

But even as I said it, I knew it wouldn't be that simple. Dorian wouldn't waste an opportunity like this. Two months of forced proximity, professional requirements for physical contact, legitimate excuses to break down my boundaries piece by piece.

And my chemical defenses were already failing.

The read-through was scheduled for Thursday afternoon in the main rehearsal room. I arrived early, hoping to claim a seat that would minimize my exposure to Dorian's presence, but found him already there, lounging in a chair with his script open.

He'd positioned himself strategically—close enough to the director's table to look professional, but where his sandalwood scent would drift across the room to wherever I sat. I chose a chair as far away as possible and tried to focus on my script instead of the way his presence made my skin crawl.

Matt Wells commanded attention from the moment he entered. Tall, silver-haired, with the kind of presence that made everyone sit up straighter, he carried decades of Broadway experience in his bearing. Under normal circumstances, working with someone of his caliber would have been the opportunity of a lifetime.

"Much Ado About Nothing," he began, his voice carrying practiced authority, "is a play about masks. The masks we wear to protect ourselves, the masks we use to deceive others, and what happens when those masks are stripped away."

His gaze swept the room, making eye contact with each actor. When he looked at me, I saw approval, expectation, the weight of professional opportunity that made my chest tight with conflicting emotions.

"Beatrice and Benedick are particularly complex characters. Their verbal sparring masks deeper attraction, their cruelty toward each other stems from vulnerability. To make this work, my actors need to be willing to access real emotion, real chemistry."

My stomach clenched. Real chemistry. With Dorian.

"We'll be exploring intimate blocking as we develop these relationships. The romantic scenes need to feel authentic, not staged. I expect complete commitment from my leads."

Across the circle, Dorian's sandalwood scent spiked with something that made my hindbrain shriek warnings. He was practically vibrating with anticipation, clearly planning to use every moment of professional obligation to systematically destroy my boundaries.

"Let's begin with Act One, Scene One. Beatrice's entrance."

The read-through became a blur of anxiety and conflicting emotions. Every time our characters interacted—every piece of witty banter, every moment of verbal sparring—felt like a battle I was losing before it started. Dorian threw himself into Benedick's arrogance and charm, the underlying attraction that made the character's cruelty so devastating.

And despite everything, I found myself responding to the material. Not to him, but to the professional challenge, to Wells's obvious expertise, to the artistic opportunity I'd dreamed of for years. The excitement was real, even through the terror, which made everything worse.

Because that genuine enthusiasm for the work would make it impossible to maintain the emotional distance I needed to survive the next eight weeks.

"Excellent work, everyone," Wells said as we finished the final act. "I can see this is going to be a remarkable production. Vespera, Dorian—stay for a moment."

My blood turned to ice as the other actors filed out, leaving me alone with Wells and Dorian in the empty rehearsal room. Every instinct screamed at me to run, but I forced myself to remain seated, professional smile frozen on my face.

"You two have interesting chemistry," Wells observed, studying us with the analytical eye of someone who'd made a career out of reading human dynamics. "There's tension, conflict, but also something deeper. That's exactly what this play needs."

"We've worked together before," Dorian said smoothly. "We understand each other well."