Page 29 of The Drama King (The University Players Duet #1)
twenty-one
Vespera
The November wind cut through my coat as I hurried across campus toward the administration building, fallen leaves swirling around my feet in the pre-Thanksgiving gloom.
Two days had passed since the theater outing incident, two days of hiding in Stephanie and Robbie's off-campus sanctuary while trying to process what had happened in that abandoned parking lot.
The physical evidence was undeniable. Fading bruises on my throat, scratches on my palms from the rough pavement, the psychological trauma that made me jump at every unexpected sound.
But translating that evidence into institutional action felt impossible when facing the towering brick facade of Whitmore Hall, where generations of wealthy alumni had donated their way to influence.
"You don't have to do this alone," Stephanie said, matching my pace despite her obvious concern. "I can come in with you."
"Better if you wait outside," I replied, my breath forming small clouds in the cold air. "They're more likely to dismiss this if it looks like I need someone to hold my hand."
Robbie had wanted to come too, but we'd agreed his presence might complicate things. Male Omegas faced their own prejudices in administrative settings, and his pale, post-heat exhaustion would only provide ammunition for anyone looking to discredit our account.
The building's interior was all marble and mahogany, designed to intimidate rather than welcome. Portrait paintings of distinguished donors lined the walls. Predominantly Alpha men in expensive suits, their eyes following me with painted disapproval as I approached the information desk.
"I need to speak with someone about filing a formal complaint," I told the receptionist, a middle-aged Beta woman whose expression immediately grew guarded.
"What kind of complaint?" she asked, fingers hovering over her computer keyboard.
"Designation-based harassment and physical assault by fellow students."
The typing stopped. She looked up at me with barely concealed wariness, as if I'd just announced I was carrying a contagious disease.
"One moment," she said, picking up her phone. After a brief, whispered conversation, she gestured toward a cluster of chairs. "Someone will be with you shortly."
The wait stretched into forty-five minutes, long enough for my initial adrenaline to fade into anxious exhaustion.
Other students came and went. Mostly Alphas and Betas handling routine academic business with efficient courtesy.
My presence seemed to create an invisible barrier, causing conversations to drop to whispers and eyes to avoid direct contact.
"Ms. Levine?" A woman in her fifties appeared at my side, her tailored suit and confident bearing marking her as administration. "I'm Assistant Dean McArthur. Would you please come with me?"
Her office was smaller than I'd expected, cramped with filing cabinets and academic certifications. She gestured for me to sit in an uncomfortable wooden chair while she settled behind her desk with a legal pad and careful expression.
"Now then," she began, pen poised, "I understand you wish to file a complaint regarding interactions with fellow students?"
"Physical assault," I corrected, my voice steadier than I felt. "Attempted abduction. Use of illegal designation tracking technology."
Her eyebrows rose slightly, and I caught something like disbelief flash across her features. "Those are extremely serious allegations, Ms. Levine. Are you absolutely certain about what you're claiming occurred?"
The way she emphasized "claiming" made it clear she doubted my account before I'd even finished giving it.
"I'm completely certain," I said firmly. "I have physical evidence, photographic documentation, and audio recording."
McArthur leaned back in her chair, her expression growing more skeptical by the moment.
"Ms. Levine, I need you to understand something.
The students you're accusing come from families with impeccable reputations and longstanding relationships with this university.
These are not the sort of young men who engage in the behavior you're describing. "
"But they did engage in that behavior," I insisted. "I have proof—"
"What you have," she interrupted, "are injuries that could have resulted from any number of activities, photographs of what appears to be expensive jewelry, and an audio recording made during what was clearly an emotionally charged situation."
She picked up her pen and made a note. "Ms. Levine, are you currently taking any medications? Experiencing unusual stress? Perhaps struggling with the academic pressure of your scholarship?"
The implication was clear. I was either lying, delusional, or both.
"I know what happened to me," I said, my voice shaking with frustration.
"I'm sure you believe you do," McArthur replied with patronizing kindness. "But perception can be influenced by many factors. Scholarship students often feel isolated, targeted, when the reality is simply that academic life at Northwood is competitive for everyone."
She leaned forward, her tone becoming more pointed.
"The Ashworth family has donated over twelve million dollars to this university.
The Barclay Foundation funds our research programs. These families have produced three governors, two senators, and countless business leaders.
Do you really think such distinguished individuals would raise sons capable of what you're alleging? "
"Money doesn't make someone incapable of assault," I said, desperation creeping into my voice.
"No, but it does make false accusations extremely expensive for everyone involved.
" McArthur's mask of kindness slipped slightly, revealing something harder underneath.
"Ms. Levine, I'm going to be very direct with you.
If you proceed with these allegations, you will be going up against some of the most powerful families in the state.
They have resources you can't imagine. Legal teams, private investigators, public relations experts. "
"So you're not going to investigate?"
"I'm going to do what's in everyone's best interests," she replied smoothly. "Which is to suggest you reconsider whether this alleged incident might have been a misunderstanding that got out of hand."
"This wasn't a misunderstanding!"
"These young men will graduate to positions of significant influence in theater, entertainment, and business," McArthur continued, cutting me off.
"Your future career may well depend on maintaining professional relationships with people from similar backgrounds.
Learning to navigate those relationships successfully is part of your education here. "
The subtext was crystal clear: drop the complaint or face career suicide.
"What if I refuse to withdraw the complaint?" I asked.
McArthur's expression grew colder. "Then it will be investigated thoroughly.
The accused students and their families will be informed.
Character witnesses will be interviewed.
Your own background, academic performance, and social interactions will be scrutinized.
" She paused meaningfully. "Scholarship students who generate controversy rarely maintain their funding. "
The threat hung in the air between us, polite but unmistakable.
"I need time to think," I said finally.
"Of course." McArthur stood, signaling the end of our meeting. "But I'd encourage you not to let this situation escalate unnecessarily. Sometimes the wisest course is to focus on your studies and let social conflicts resolve naturally."
I left her office feeling hollow, the university's marble hallways seeming to stretch endlessly in all directions. The administrative machine had spoken, and I'd been crushed beneath its wheels so efficiently I barely understood what had happened.
Stephanie was waiting outside, her expression anxious. "How did it go?"
"Exactly as we expected," I said, too drained for anger. "They're not going to do anything. Worse. They're threatening my scholarship if I don't drop it."
"Bastards." Her voice was fierce with protective rage. "What do we do now?"
I looked back at the imposing building where Assistant Dean McArthur was probably already making calls, ensuring that my complaint disappeared into administrative limbo.
"We document everything," I said, surprising myself with my resolve. "Every interaction, every threat, every attempt at intimidation. If the institution won't protect me, I'll protect myself."
"Ves—"
"No." I turned to face her fully, something crystallizing in my chest. "They think I'll just disappear, transfer out like all the other scholarship students they've broken. But I earned my place here, and I'm not leaving."
"Even knowing what they're capable of?"
I thought of the parking lot, of Dorian's hands around my throat, of the calculated cruelty in Corvus's eyes. Then I thought of my Lady Macbeth performance, of the standing ovation, of Professor Goldman mentioning graduate programs.
"Especially knowing what they're capable of," I said. "Because now I know exactly what I'm fighting."
As we walked back across campus, the late November wind cutting through our coats, I felt something shift inside me.
The frightened scholarship student was still there, but she was no longer driving.
Instead, there was someone harder, more determined.
Someone who understood that survival at Northwood would require strategy, patience, and the willingness to play a longer game than my tormentors anticipated.
They had the institution. They had wealth and influence and generations of privilege.
But I had something they'd never expected me to develop: the knowledge that they were afraid of me. Afraid enough to risk criminal charges. Afraid enough to involve their families' legal teams.
That fear was my weapon now. I just had to learn how to use it.