Page 92 of The Drama King
The words echoed in my mind as I traced eyeliner with unsteady fingers. I'd crossed a line yesterday, given him ammunition he could use to destroy me. But more than that, I'dliked it. Had craved the way he'd dominated me, the way he'd made me watch myself surrender.
A knock on my dressing room door made me jump.
"Thirty minutes to places," came the stage manager's voice.
Thirty minutes. I could survive thirty minutes, then two hours of performance, then somehow make it through the reception without falling apart completely.
Industry professionals were out there in the audience. Critics, agents, people whose opinions could make or break careers. This was supposed to be my moment, my chance to prove I belonged here.
Instead, I felt like I was walking toward my own execution.
The first act passed in a blur of adrenaline and barely controlled panic.
My body was betraying me in small ways: a flush that had nothing to do with stage lights, a tremor in my hands during the quieter moments, a restlessness that made it hard to hit my marks. But I pushed through, drawing on years of training and the desperate need to not humiliate myself in front of an audience full of people who already doubted I deserved to be here.
Dorian, playing opposite me, seemed to sense something was different. His eyes followed me more closely than usual during our shared scenes, his nostrils flaring slightly when we came close enough for intimate blocking. But instead of concern, I saw something that made my blood run cold: anticipation. Like a predator scenting wounded prey.
I caught glimpses of Corvus and Oakley in the wings during scene changes, positioned where they could watch me, observe every stumble and flush. They weren't supposed to be there—they had no role in this production—but no one questioned their presence.
During the masquerade scene, when the blocking required Dorian to spin me close, he leaned in and whispered against my ear, "You smell different tonight, sweetheart."
The words sent ice through my veins even as my traitorous body responded to his proximity. He knew. Somehow, he knew my defenses were failing.
"I don't know what you mean," I hissed back, trying to focus on the dance steps.
His laugh was low, satisfied. "Don't you? We'll see."
By the end of Act One, sweat was beading along my hairline despite the air conditioning. Wells called out notes during the brief scene change, praising the "raw intensity" I was bringing to Beatrice, completely oblivious to the fact that I was falling apart.
"Whatever you're channeling, keep it up," he said as I passed. "The audience is captivated."
If only he knew.
By intermission, I was struggling. The heat building under my skin was becoming impossible to ignore, and my scent was starting to bleed through what little chemical protection I had left. I locked myself in my dressing room, splashed cold water on my face, and tried to convince myself I could make it through Act Two.
But when I looked in the mirror, I saw the truth written in my flushed cheeks, my dilated pupils, the way I couldn't seem to stop touching myself: smoothing my hair, adjusting my costume, seeking contact that my body craved.
This was how it started. This was how my carefully constructed defenses crumbled.
Other cast members knocked on my door—casual check-ins, offers of water or snacks—but I couldn't risk opening it. Couldn't risk them scenting what was happening to me.
"Vespera? You okay in there?" It was Sarah, one of the ensemble members.
"Fine," I called back, proud that my voice sounded almost normal. "Just need a minute."
I had to make it through two more acts. Two more acts, and then I could disappear, figure out how to survive what was coming.
The second half started well enough, but by the middle scenes, my control was slipping visibly.
I threw myself into Beatrice's wit and passion, using the character's strength to mask my own growing weakness. But the church scene felt different: dangerous, loaded with an energy that had nothing to do with Shakespeare.
The intimate moments with Dorian were torture. Every touch required by the blocking sent fire through my nervous system, every breath brought more of his scent, and I could feel my body responding in ways that were becoming impossible to hide.
"I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest," I said, the words coming out rawer than intended, thick with need I couldn't suppress.
Dorian's eyes glittered with predatory satisfaction as he pulled me closer. "Come, bid me do anything for thee."
The audience was leaning forward in their seats—I could feel their attention, their investment in what they thought was brilliant acting. They had no idea they were watching someone's carefully constructed life crumble in real time.