Page 12 of The Drama King (The University Players Duet #1)

eight

Vespera

"He's escalating," I told Stephanie and Robbie over dinner that evening. "Not just intimidation anymore, but systematic emotional manipulation disguised as artistic collaboration."

"That's not a collaboration," Robbie said firmly. "That's emotional abuse with academic justification. There's a difference between challenging scene work and deliberate psychological harm."

"But that's what makes it so insidious," I replied, pushing food around my plate without much appetite.

"He's technically right that great acting requires emotional risk, that you have to access genuine feelings to create authentic performances.

So when he pushes me to places that feel unsafe, I can't tell if it's legitimate artistic direction or calculated cruelty. "

"It's both," Stephanie said quietly. "He's using real artistic principles to justify behavior that crosses ethical boundaries. Classic manipulation tactic. Wrap abuse in just enough legitimate authority to make the victim question their own instincts."

"So what do I do?" I looked between my two friends, desperate for guidance. "I can't drop the class, and I can't refuse to work with him without jeopardizing my grade. But I also can't spend the next month being systematically broken down in the name of artistic truth."

"You set boundaries," Robbie said. "Clear, firm limits on what you will and won't accept, regardless of artistic justification. Great acting doesn't require self-destruction."

"And we document everything," Stephanie added. "Every inappropriate comment, every boundary violation, every moment where he crosses from legitimate scene work into personal attack. Build a case."

"A case for what?" I asked. "Even if I could prove he's manipulating me, he'll just claim it's legitimate artistic direction. Who's going to side with the scholarship Omega over the son of a political dynasty when it comes to subjective questions about acting methodology?"

The silence that followed confirmed what we all knew. I was trapped in a situation where my only options were to endure the psychological assault or abandon everything I'd worked for.

"There might be another way," Robbie said slowly. "What if you turn his methods against him?"

"What do you mean?"

"He's trying to break you down, right? Make you vulnerable and reactive so he can control the dynamic. But what if instead of resisting or enduring, you used his techniques to study him? Learn his patterns, his triggers, his vulnerabilities?"

I stared at him, intrigued despite my exhaustion. "You mean treat it like research?"

"Exactly. He's giving you a masterclass in psychological manipulation. Not because he wants to teach you, but because he can't help showing off his skills. If you approach it as learning rather than just surviving, you might find ways to protect yourself or even turn the tables."

"That's... actually brilliant," Stephanie said, her expression brightening. "Instead of being his victim, you become his student. Learn everything he's willing to demonstrate about power dynamics and psychological warfare."

"It's still dangerous," I pointed out. "And it doesn't solve the immediate problem of how to get through the next few weeks without being completely psychologically dismantled."

"No," Robbie agreed. "But it gives you a framework for understanding what's happening to you, and understanding is the first step toward agency."

I considered the proposal, turning it over in my mind. It was risky, potentially putting me in even greater psychological danger. But it also offered something I desperately needed. A sense of purpose beyond mere survival.

"Knowledge as power," I murmured.

"Exactly," Stephanie said. "And if you're going to be subjected to his manipulation anyway, you might as well learn something useful from the experience."

For the first time since the whole ordeal began, I felt a spark of something other than fear or determination. Not quite optimism, but perhaps the beginning of strategy.

If Corvus wanted to treat me as a subject for psychological experimentation, I could return the favor. The student could study the teacher, even if the teacher didn't realize that was what was happening.

But for now, at this moment, it felt like enough to not be facing the challenge alone. Whatever Corvus had planned for our next rehearsal, whatever psychological games the pack might escalate to, I wouldn't be walking into them completely defenseless.

Even if I wasn't entirely sure what I was defending against.

***

The morning of our scene study midterms arrived gray and cold, October's warmth finally surrendering to November's chill.

I'd spent the previous night running lines with Stephanie, working through every possible variation of the interrogation scene until I could deliver Elizabeth's responses in my sleep.

But all that preparation felt fragile as I stood outside Professor De Scarzis's classroom, waiting to perform with Corvus.

Over the past two weeks, our rehearsals had become increasingly tense.

Him pushing psychological boundaries under the guise of "method work," me trying to maintain professional boundaries while accessing the emotional truth the scene required.

"You'll be brilliant," Stephanie whispered, squeezing my hand. "Remember what we practiced. Don't let him throw you off your preparation."

I nodded, though my stomach churned with nervous energy.

Around us, other scene pairs rehearsed quietly, some looking confident, others clearly struggling with last-minute panic.

The stakes felt enormous. Thirty percent of our semester grade, with faculty evaluators taking notes that would follow us through the rest of our time at Northwood.

"Levine and Barclay," Professor De Scarzis called, consulting her clipboard. "You're up next."

I followed Corvus into the performance space. A small black box theater with harsh overhead lights and folding chairs arranged for the evaluating faculty. Professor De Scarzis sat in the center, flanked by two other instructors I recognized from department meetings.

"Take a moment to set up," De Scarzis said, her pen poised over her evaluation form. "Begin when ready."

Corvus and I took our positions. He'd dressed impeccably in all black, perfectly embodying Danforth's austere authority. I wore the simple gray dress we'd agreed upon for Elizabeth's Puritan constraints.

The scene began exactly as we'd rehearsed. But within moments, I realized Corvus was changing things.

"You are God's instrument put in our hands to discover the Devil's agents among us," he said, his voice carrying Danforth's authority but with subtle variations from our rehearsal. He moved differently, timing his approaches to throw off my prepared blocking.

"I have not confessed," I replied, struggling to adjust while maintaining Elizabeth's character.

"What look do you give me?" he demanded, suddenly stepping far closer than we'd ever blocked. His aggressive proximity triggered my Omega instincts, my scent spiking with involuntary anxiety that I knew the faculty could detect. "Are you threatening me?"

The deviation from our rehearsal left me scrambling. This wasn't the scene we'd prepared. He was improvising challenges designed to make me look unprofessional and unprepared.

"God forbid I should hurt you, sir," I managed, my voice less steady than it should have been. "I came to tell the truth."

"We know your husband's lechery," Corvus pressed, his eyes boring into mine with an intensity that went beyond character work. "Tell me, woman. Did you never suspect his wandering eye?"

That line wasn't in the script. He was ad-libbing, forcing me to respond without preparation while the faculty watched and took notes. I could see Professor De Scarzis frowning, clearly noting the deviation from Cruz's text.

"He is a good man," I said, trying to stay in character while silently panicking about how this would affect my grade.

The scene continued with Corvus making subtle but devastating changes.

Altering timing, adding non-scripted dialogue, shifting blocking in ways that made me appear confused and unprepared.

To an observer, it would look like I hadn't done the work, hadn't learned my lines properly, couldn't adapt professionally to my scene partner's choices.

"Remove her," he commanded with Danforth's cold dismissal, and I had never been more grateful for a scene to end.

Silence stretched uncomfortably. Professor De Scarzis set down her pen, her expression troubled.

"Mr. Barclay," she said carefully, "your Danforth was certainly commanding. Though I noticed several departures from Cruz's text."

"I was exploring subtext," Corvus replied smoothly. "The interrogation's psychological realism seemed to call for more improvisational elements."

"I see." Her gaze shifted to me. "Ms. Levine, you seemed unsettled by your partner's choices. Did you not rehearse enough? Either way, in professional theater, adaptability is crucial."

My cheeks burned with humiliation. "I was prepared for the scene as we rehearsed it," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "The changes weren't discussed beforehand."

"Communication between scene partners is essential," De Scarzis noted, making marks on her evaluation form that I was certain weren't positive. "Mr. Barclay, perhaps next time you could share your improvisational intentions with your partner during preparation."

"Of course, Professor," he replied with perfect contrition. "I assumed Ms. Levine would be comfortable with spontaneous development. I'll be more explicit about my process in future collaborations."

The subtle implication was clear: any problems with our scene were due to my inflexibility and lack of professional adaptability.

As we gathered our things, Corvus leaned close enough to whisper, "Excellent work adapting to unexpected challenges. Very... educational."

The satisfaction in his voice made my skin crawl. He'd successfully sabotaged my performance while making it appear to be my failing, not his manipulation.

Walking back to my dorm afterward, I felt the weight of what had just happened. Not just a poor grade, but documentation in my academic record that I struggled with collaborative flexibility. Exactly the kind of "professionalism concerns" that could justify reviewing my scholarship.

Stephanie took one look at my face when I found her in our room. "What happened?"

"He destroyed me," I said, sinking onto my bed. "And made it look like my fault."

As I recounted the performance, I saw her expression grow increasingly grim. This wasn't just harassment anymore. It was systematic academic sabotage designed to create an official paper trail of my supposed inadequacies.

"They're not just trying to break you," she said quietly. "They're building a case to have you removed entirely."

I choked out a bitter laugh. "Just let them try. My dad is counting on me to succeed. I don't go down that easy."