Page 84 of The Drama King

The lie was technically true and completely misleading, but Wells nodded approvingly.

"Good. Because I'm going to be pushing you both hard over the next eight weeks. This production could launch careers, open doors, establish reputations. But only if you're willing to trust each other, to be vulnerable, to let the audience see the truth beneath your characters' masks."

Trust. Vulnerability. Truth. All the things that would destroy me.

"I expect complete professional commitment," Wells continued. "No personal drama interfering with the work, no holding back during intimate scenes, no letting whatever history you have affect the artistic process."

"Of course," I managed, proud that my voice stayed steady.

"Wonderful." Wells gathered his materials, clearly pleased with whatever dynamic he thought he was seeing between us. "We'll start blocking Monday with the masquerade scene—lots of physical contact, dancing, flirtation. Come prepared to work closely together."

The moment Wells left, the atmosphere in the room shifted. Dorian's professional mask slipped, revealing the predatory satisfaction underneath.

"This is going to be educational," he said, echoing my words from Tuesday but loading them with entirely different meaning. "Eight weeks of professional intimacy. I wonder how long your walls will last under that kind of pressure."

I stood, grabbing my bag and heading for the door. "Long enough."

His laughter followed me into the hallway, rich with anticipation and dark promise.

"We'll see about that, sweetheart. We'll see."

As I walked back to my dorm, script clutched in my trembling hands, I tried to calculate how many days I had to figure out a survival strategy. Eight weeks. Fifty-six days.

Fifty-six days of fighting a battle I was already losing, while my chemical defenses crumbled and my support system dissolved around me.

The performance wasn't until March, but I was already drowning.

thirty-one

Vespera

Iwalkedintomydorm room to find Stephanie surrounded by boxes.

She moved with mechanical precision, folding clothes into neat stacks, wrapping her desk lamp in a towel, building walls of textbooks between us. Half her side of the room had been stripped bare, pale rectangles marking where her photos used to hang.

I froze in the doorway, too shocked to process what I was seeing.

"Stephanie?"

She glanced up from the box she was packing, her expression carefully neutral in the way that meant she'd been dreading this conversation.

"I hoped I'd finish before you got back," she said quietly.

"Finish what? What's happening?"

"Room transfer went through." She gestured at the chaos surrounding her. "My parents made some calls. There's an opening in Whitmore Hall with a Beta from my art class. Someone more... academically aligned."

The euphemism hit like a physical blow. I dropped my rehearsal bag, staring at her in disbelief.

"You're leaving tonight."

"The paperwork came through this afternoon. Residence life wants the transition done immediately." She wouldn't meet my eyes, focusing instead on wrapping a framed photo of her family with excessive care. "It's better this way."

"Better for who?"

She flinched but kept packing. "For both of us."

"This is about Robbie," I said, sinking onto my bed. "About the rumors."