Page 39 of The Drama King (The University Players Duet #1)

twenty-seven

Corvus

Snow had stopped falling by dawn, leaving campus blanketed in pristine white that would soon be trampled into brown slush by thousands of students rushing to finals. I stood at my dormitory window, sipping coffee and watching early morning joggers leave footprints across the quad.

Perfect conditions for what needed to be done.

My phone buzzed with the final piece of intelligence: Gao meeting with academic advisor at 10 AM. Office 314, Administrative Building. Subject appears distressed.

I smiled, setting the device aside. Of course Robbie was distressed. The preliminary pressure I'd applied over the past week had been subtle but effective—just enough to create anxiety without revealing the true scope of what was coming.

The male Omega had proven remarkably resilient to standard intimidation. His family's pharmaceutical wealth provided buffers most students lacked, and his academic record was pristine enough to withstand casual sabotage. But everyone had vulnerabilities if you knew where to look.

Unlike Dorian's crude obsession with direct confrontation, I preferred surgical precision. Find the exact pressure point that would collapse someone's entire world, then apply force with mathematical efficiency.

Robbie Gao was about to learn what happened when someone interfered with pack business.

I dressed carefully—charcoal suit, silver tie, the expensive but understated wardrobe that opened doors and commanded respect.

No school uniform today; this was a deliberate power move.

Northwood's academic dress code didn't apply to students who transcended student status.

Today required inhabiting several different personas, and appearance was crucial for each performance.

First stop: campus security, where my family's donations had purchased access to surveillance systems and incident reports. The desk sergeant barely looked up as I signed in.

"Morning, Mr. Barclay. What can we do for you today?"

"November 15th footage, McArthur Hall," I said simply, sliding a folded paper across his desk. "And I'll need editing access."

He glanced at the Barclay family letterhead—no questions asked, no authorization required.

Twenty minutes later, I had security footage edited to show Robbie entering Vespera's dormitory during her heat cycle and emerging hours later in obvious biological arousal.

Damning visual evidence that would support whatever narrative I chose to construct.

Second stop: Professor Stockley's office in Chemistry. I showed her my family pin, mentioned pharmaceutical investment partnerships, and presented doctored communications suggesting Robbie had been pressuring faculty for controlled substances.

"Dr. Stockley, my family's legal department has flagged irregularities involving Mr. Gao's pharmaceutical access," I said, showing her the edited footage.

"We'll need a detailed report of any interactions regarding controlled substances.

Something demonstrating your commitment to regulatory compliance. "

Ten minutes. She was already drafting the report before I left.

Third stop: Dean Whitmore, who greeted me like the major donor family member I was.

She offered me tea from her personal collection, gesturing to the chair opposite her mahogany desk.

I presented my carefully prepared case—security footage, Stockley's report, psychological profiles, financial records—all arranged to paint systematic predatory behavior.

"Robert Gao represents a significant liability," I concluded. "Immediate suspension pending investigation. The kind of comprehensive response that demonstrates institutional competence."

Dean Whitmore nodded grimly, her silver-streaked hair catching the morning light as she made notes. "I'll have the orders prepared within the hour."

Three stops. Three victories. The administrative machinery of Northwood grinding into action with the efficiency that Barclay money had purchased over decades of strategic donations.

But I wasn't finished.

Fourth stop: Robbie's dormitory, where I knew he would return after learning that his entire academic career was being placed under investigation, his family contacts flagged for misconduct, his reputation systematically demolished through official channels.

I waited in the hallway outside his room, reading case studies on my tablet while monitoring the elevator. When he finally appeared—shoulders slumped, face pale with shock, moving like someone who'd received devastating news—I allowed myself a moment of professional satisfaction.

Surgical strike, perfectly executed.

"Robbie," I called out as he approached his door. "We need to talk."

He stopped, black hair catching fluorescent light as he turned to face me. Up close, I could see evidence of tears—red-rimmed eyes, flushed cheeks, the emotional devastation that came from watching your future collapse in real time.

"You," he said quietly, understanding flickering in his expression. "This was you."

"This was consequences," I corrected, standing with fluid grace. "Actions have results, Robbie. Surely someone from your family background understands that principle."

His scent spiked with fear and rage, but also resignation—he understood exactly how thoroughly he'd been outmaneuvered. "What do you want?"

"I want you to understand your situation," I said conversationally.

"Right now, you're facing academic suspension, potential criminal charges, and complete destruction of your reputation.

Your family's pharmaceutical connections are under investigation, your access to controlled substances has been revoked, and every interaction you've had with Omega students is being scrutinized for exploitation. "

His hands trembled as he fumbled with his key card. "None of that is true. I've never—"

"Truth is irrelevant," I interrupted, watching as he finally managed to swipe the card. The door clicked open, and I followed him inside without invitation, closing it behind us with a decisive click.

The small dorm room felt even smaller with my presence filling it. I watched him back away instinctively, putting the narrow bed between us—a futile barrier that only emphasized how trapped he was.

"Let me tell you the story I've constructed," I said, moving slowly around the bed as he retreated toward the window. "Male Omega from wealthy pharmaceutical family develops fixation on female heat cycles. Uses family connections to obtain military-grade suppressants and controlled substances."

His back hit the wall. I continued my approach, noting how his pupils dilated with genuine fear.

"November 15th," I continued, stopping close enough that he could smell my Alpha scent. "Security footage shows you entering Vespera's building during her heat, remaining for hours, emerging aroused. The evidence writes itself."

"That's not what happened," he whispered, pressing back against the wall.

"Isn't it?" I placed one hand against the wall beside his head, effectively caging him. "A lonely male Omega, using wealth and pharmaceutical access to gain intimate contact with desperate females during their most vulnerable states?"

I could smell his distress spiking, could see his breathing quicken as the implications sank in.

"But here's the real leverage," I said softly. "What would happen if investigators learned about your sexual relationship with me? About how you've been compromised by the very Alpha you claim to protect students from?"

The color drained from his face completely as understanding hit.

"The lighting booth," I said, moving closer until barely inches separated us. "How desperate you were. How you trembled when I touched you. The way you arched beneath me, begging so prettily despite all your progressive politics."

His breathing hitched, pupils dilating as the memory crashed over him. I could smell his body's involuntary response—the treacherous biology that would always remember what his mind tried to forget.

"The way you cried out when I knotted you," I continued, my voice a low rumble against his ear. "How tight you were. How perfectly you fit around me while your artificial scent drove us both wild."

His legs gave out, but I caught him, pressing him firmly against the wall with my body. The full-contact intimacy sent a violent shudder through him—part terror, part unwilling arousal at being caged by the Alpha who had claimed him so thoroughly.

"That's the story they'll hear," I murmured, my mouth close enough to his throat that he could feel my breath.

"How you traded your body for pharmaceutical access.

How you spread your legs for the very Alpha you claim to protect other Omegas from.

How you came apart on my knot while planning to help her resist everything you'd just surrendered to. "

I released him, stepping back to pull the medical leave document from my jacket. "Sign this, and none of what we've discussed becomes public. Refuse, and I implement everything I just described—the investigation, the evidence, plus whatever additional materials my family can manufacture."

He stared at the paper, hands shaking too badly to hold it steady. "This isn't justice. This is blackmail."

"This is a choice," I corrected. "Request indefinite medical leave citing family obligations and health concerns, walk away quietly with your reputation intact, and this conversation never happened.

Or refuse, and tomorrow morning every administrator receives a comprehensive dossier detailing your systematic exploitation of vulnerable Omega students. "

I handed him a pen. "Clean exit with dignity preserved, or complete destruction through every available channel. Your decision, Robbie."

The choice wasn't really a choice at all, and we both knew it. Sign the paper and disappear quietly, or face annihilation through every channel—legal, social, academic, and personal.

His signature was barely legible, hand shaking so violently the ink smeared. But it was legally binding, witnessed by my presence and recorded through campus security cameras I'd positioned myself under deliberately.

"Excellent," I said, taking the document and checking his signature.

"You have twenty-four hours to pack and leave campus.

Any attempt to contact Omega students, access pharmaceutical supplies, or interfere with ongoing pack activities will result in immediate implementation of the alternative consequences we discussed. "

I turned to leave, then paused as if remembering something trivial. "Oh, and Robbie? You might want to consider staying away from theatrical productions in the future. Something about your performance style seems to attract the wrong kind of attention."

The reference to our encounter in the lighting booth—the night I'd used synthetic heat induction to claim him while he carried Vespera's lingering scent—sent him to his knees, dry heaving with psychological trauma that would take years to process.

I walked away without looking back, already mentally composing the text I would send to Dorian: Pharmaceutical supply problem resolved. Target will be isolated within 24 hours.

By tomorrow, Vespera would be stripped of her most crucial defense—her pharmaceutical supplier and the chemical barriers that had allowed her to resist biological imperative.

No more military-grade suppressants, no more industrial-grade scent blockers, no more access to the medical resources that had made her heat cycle invisible to us.

Her Beta roommate would still provide emotional support, but Stephanie had no pharmaceutical connections, no access to the controlled substances that had enabled Vespera's resistance.

Without Robbie's family resources, she would be forced to rely on standard campus health services—inferior suppressants that stress could easily overwhelm, basic scent blockers that wouldn't fool an Alpha's enhanced senses.

The next time her biology betrayed her, we would scent every moment of it.

Perfect surgical strike, executed with the precision that separated truly effective predators from crude bullies who relied on obvious force.

Robbie Gao would disappear from campus within hours, his academic career destroyed, his reputation in ruins, his psychological state too fragmented to pose any future threat to pack operations.

And Vespera would never know exactly how thoroughly her primary defender had been eliminated until it was far too late to matter.

The snow had begun falling again by the time I reached my dormitory, covering the footprints and evidence of the morning's activities in pristine white. Like it had never happened at all.

Except for the broken male Omega who would spend the rest of his life wondering how helping a friend in need had transformed into complete destruction of everything he'd worked to build.