Page 1 of The Drama King (The University Players Duet #1)
one
Vespera
My boots hit the pavement as I stepped off the Greyhound bus, my hand-me-down duffel bag clutched against my chest.
The gothic spires of Northwood University rose before me like a medieval fortress.
Through wrought-iron gates stretched the campus that had consumed my dreams for months: where presidents and CEOs sent their children, but the Corrington School of Theatre was the real prize.
Broadway scouts attended every showcase here.
West End casting directors held standing invitations to student productions.
A strand of dirty blonde hair escaped my hastily arranged bun.
I tucked it behind my ear, inhaling the crisp autumn air that carried freshly cut grass and something more potent: the concentrated blend of Alpha, Beta, and Omega pheromones that marked the first week of fall semester at the most competitive theater program in the country.
I forced my breathing to slow, drawing on years of theater training to manage stage fright. This was another performance. Another stage where I needed to play my part convincingly.
"You belong here," I whispered, the words lost amid reunion squeals and orientation chatter echoing across cobblestone.
Belonging and surviving were two entirely different things.
A sleek black Tesla glided past, depositing a blonde Omega whose designer luggage literally glittered.
The contrast made my secondhand uniform feel conspicuous.
Even the standard navy blazer, white shirt, and gray pleated skirt couldn't disguise the quality difference.
Hers had been tailored while mine hung slightly wrong despite careful alterations.
I tugged at the fraying edge of my blazer, mentally calculating how many dining hall shifts it would take to afford replacements that wouldn't immediately mark me as the scholarship kid. Too many.
Three years of leading roles at Franklin Public High School meant nothing here.
At Franklin, being the drama club star had elevated my status despite my Omega designation.
Here, I was one of sixty theater undergraduates selected from thousands of global applicants and the only one who needed financial aid.
The statistics haunted me: most graduates bypassed regional theater entirely, going straight to major Broadway and West End productions.
Scholarship Omegas? The last one had transferred out after six weeks.
Online forum discussions were cryptic but consistent: "hostile environment," "couldn't handle the pressure," "better opportunities elsewhere.
" Euphemisms that translated to the same thing. They'd been driven out.
My father's parting words echoed: "Show them what a Levine is made of, Vesper. Our family might not have their money, but we've got something better: raw talent and the grit to back it up."
I squared my shoulders, remembering how he'd worked double shifts at the community theater to pay for my voice lessons after Mom left.
How he'd helped me run lines for every audition since I was twelve, even after sixteen-hour days that left his voice hoarse and his eyes red-rimmed.
He'd sacrificed everything to get me here. I wouldn't let him down.
My phone's map directed me toward the administration building first. Scholarship students had additional paperwork before move-in.
Crossing the immaculate lawn, my nostrils flared at a passing group of Alphas.
Their scent was so potent it made my knees momentarily weak, and I quickly applied another layer of drugstore scent blocker.
The cheap brand did little to mask my natural jasmine fragrance, only making it smell artificial and more obvious.
My scholarship letter had included a politely worded "suggestion" that Omega students might "wish to consider" using premium scent blockers on campus. Everything was out of my budget. Another subtle reminder that I wasn't the typical Northwood student.
Inside the administration building, all marble columns and intimidating grandeur, I approached the reception desk. The middle-aged Beta woman glanced up from her computer, her professional smile tightening almost imperceptibly as she caught my scent.
"Can I help you?" Her tone remained pleasant, but her eyes had already flickered to my worn duffel bag and back to my face.
"I'm Vespera Levine. I'm here for the scholarship student check-in."
"Levine..." She tapped at her keyboard, frowning slightly. "Ah yes, the theater scholarship recipient. Full merit aid."
The way she said "full merit aid" made it sound more like "charity case." I nodded, keeping my expression neutral as she slid a thick packet across the polished desk.
"All scholarship students must maintain a 3.
8 GPA minimum and complete twenty hours of work-study per week.
The dining hall supervisors expect punctuality and professional appearance at all times.
" She paused, studying me with barely concealed skepticism.
"There's also a mandatory wellness workshop tomorrow morning. Room 204."
I glanced at the additional forms: questions about heat cycle management, suppressant brands, emergency protocols, and family contact information. The full-paying students definitely didn't have to document their biological functions in such detail.
"The Code of Conduct is on page twelve," she continued, her tone sharpening. "Please review it thoroughly. We've had, well, adjustment issues with scholarship recipients in the past. The Corrington Theatre program maintains certain standards."
"What kind of adjustment issues?" I couldn't help asking.
Her smile became razor-thin. "Not everyone adapts well to Northwood's collaborative environment. Excellence requires resilience."
With that diplomatic dismissal, she handed me a key card, campus map, and orientation schedule. "Your residence assignment is Morrison House, room 127. First floor, east wing."
The walk to Morrison House gave me time to process what I'd learned.
"Collaborative environment" obviously meant something specific here.
Something that had broken previous scholarship students.
But I'd fought too hard to get here to be intimidated by administrative doubletalk and thinly veiled classism.
Morrison House was a gothic structure of weathered stone and ivy, nestled at the edge of campus.
The common areas were expensively appointed: leather furniture, Persian rugs, oil paintings of distinguished alumni.
My room was clearly one of the smaller ones, tucked away in a corner where visiting parents wouldn't notice the size disparity.
I had just begun unpacking when the door burst open and a petite girl with bright blue hair tumbled in, arms full of colorful bags and art supplies. She stopped short when she saw me, her eyes widening with genuine excitement.
"Oh! You must be my roommate!" she exclaimed, and I immediately identified her as a Beta from her warm, uncomplicated scent. "I'm Stephanie Shaw. Theater tech major, lighting design focus, and professional chatterbox according to my last three therapists."
She extended a hand covered in colorful string bracelets, her smile refreshingly authentic after the administration building's chilly reception. Her uniform had been subtly modified: several enamel pins decorated her blazer, and she'd shortened the standard gray skirt.
"Vespera Levine," I replied, shaking her hand gratefully. "Acting focus. And scholarship recipient, which apparently comes with its own special orientation requirements."
"Ugh, they're still doing that segregated orientation bullshit?" Stephanie rolled her eyes, dropping her expensive backpack on the unoccupied bed. "My parents think it's ridiculous. Dad says it's institutional hazing disguised as 'mentorship.'"
Her casual mention of parental opinions reminded me that while I was here on full scholarship, she was a paying customer with family expectations and financial backing.
The difference in our situations was already apparent.
Her belongings were clearly expensive, from the professional-grade art supplies to the latest tablet for digital design work.
"So your family's in the arts?" I asked as we unpacked.
"Dad's in finance, private equity stuff, and Mom runs an art gallery in the city. They wanted me to have the 'full college experience' instead of commuting from home." She gestured toward the window. "They live in Havenhill Estates, like twenty minutes away, but insisted I live on campus."
Havenhill Estates. I'd seen the signs driving in. The casual way she mentioned it told me everything about her family's financial situation.
"What about you?" she asked, hanging fairy lights above her bed with practiced efficiency.
"My dad and me. He runs the community theater back home, does everything from directing to building sets. Mom left when I was ten." I kept my voice matter-of-fact, not wanting pity. "He worked extra jobs to pay for voice lessons and acting classes."
Stephanie's expression shifted. Not pity, but understanding.
She paused in her unpacking, studying me with new seriousness.
"There's something you should know about the theater department.
There's this pack of Alpha juniors, three guys who basically run the place like their personal kingdom.
They have a... history... with scholarship students. "
The way she said "history" made my stomach clench. "What kind of history?"
"The kind that ends with medical withdrawals and transfer paperwork," she said quietly.
"The pack leader is Dorian Ashworth. His family funded the new theater wing, so he's basically untouchable.
His pack includes Corvus Barclay, whose family has serious political connections, and Oakley Sinclair from old Southern money. "