Page 43 of The Drama King (The University Players Duet #1)

thirty

Vespera

The casting list was posted on a Tuesday morning, and I knew I was fucked the moment I saw my name.

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING - SPRING SHOWCASE Beatrice: Vespera Levine Benedick: Dorian Ashworth

The paper might as well have been my death warrant.

I stood in the theater building hallway, staring at the neat typewritten names while other students pushed past me, some celebrating their roles, others commiserating about being relegated to ensemble.

The noise faded to white static as the implications crashed over me.

Eight weeks of rehearsals. Eight weeks of intimate blocking, forced proximity, professional requirements that would put me directly in Dorian's path with no escape route.

The guest director from Broadway would demand authentic chemistry, realistic romantic tension.

There would be touching, close contact, scenes that required vulnerability I couldn't afford to show.

"Congratulations."

I spun around to find Professor McGraw approaching, a genuine smile on her face. She'd been one of my advocates since freshman year, someone who saw potential where others saw problems.

"This is a remarkable opportunity, Vespera. Freshmen rarely get leads in the spring showcase, especially with a guest director of Matt Wells's caliber. Industry professionals will be watching."

I managed a nod, my throat too tight for words. She was right—this was career-defining, the kind of role that could open doors, establish connections, launch a professional trajectory. Under any other circumstances, I would have been ecstatic.

"I know the pairing with Mr. Ashworth might seem complicated, given your history," Professor McGraw continued carefully. "But I have complete faith in your professionalism. Sometimes the most dynamic stage chemistry comes from actors who challenge each other."

Challenge each other. If only she knew.

"Thank you," I managed. "I won't disappoint you."

"I know you won't." She squeezed my shoulder briefly. "First read-through is Thursday at two. Don't let nerves get the better of you—you earned this role."

As she walked away, I looked back at the casting list. My name next to Dorian's, linked for the next two months in a way I couldn't escape without destroying everything I'd worked for.

Behind me, someone cleared their throat.

"Well, well. Looks like we're going to be spending a lot of time together."

I didn't need to turn around to know it was Dorian. His voice carried that predatory satisfaction that made my skin crawl, the tone of someone who'd just been handed exactly what they wanted.

"It's just a job," I said without turning around.

"Is it?" He moved closer, and I caught the edge of his sandalwood scent—something sharp and pleased that made my hindbrain scream warnings. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like fate."

I finally faced him, keeping my expression carefully neutral despite the panic clawing at my chest. He looked exactly like what he was—a predator who'd cornered his prey and was savoring the moment.

"Professional collaboration," I said firmly. "Nothing more."

Dorian's smile was all teeth. "Of course. Though I have to say, I'm looking forward to exploring the intimate dynamics of Beatrice and Benedick. Wells is known for pushing his actors to find authentic emotional truth."

The threat was barely veiled. He knew I couldn't refuse, couldn't run, couldn't do anything but smile and pretend this was a wonderful opportunity while he had eight weeks to systematically destroy what little protection I had left.

"I'm sure it will be educational," I said, proud that my voice stayed steady.

"Oh, it will be." His ice-blue eyes glittered with something that made my stomach turn. "See you Thursday, Beatrice."

He walked away whistling, and I stood there in the empty hallway, staring at our names on that damned list and trying not to hyperventilate.

When I got back to the dorm, Stephanie was pacing the small space between our desks, phone pressed to her ear. Her voice carried the careful politeness that meant she was talking to her parents.

"Yes, Mom, I understand your concerns... No, I haven't been spending time with anyone questionable... Yes, I'm focusing on my studies..."

She caught sight of me and held up one finger, her expression apologetic. I dropped onto my bed, only half-listening to the conversation but catching the underlying tension. Something about appropriate social circles and being careful about associations.

When she finally hung up, her shoulders slumped with relief.

"Parents?" I asked.

"They've been concerned lately. About my friendship choices." She sat on her bed, looking exhausted. "Ever since Robbie disappeared, they've been dropping hints about making sure I don't get caught up in anything that could affect my reputation."

A chill ran down my spine. "What kind of hints?"

"The usual parental stuff. Making sure I associate with the right people, not letting loyalty cloud my judgment." She looked at me carefully. "They're worried I'm going to defend him if rumors start spreading."

"What kind of rumors?"

Stephanie was quiet for a moment, clearly debating how much to tell me. "People are saying he was dealing drugs. That's why he disappeared so suddenly, why there was no official explanation."

The words hit like a punch to the gut, not because they were surprising, but because they were probably true. And if people were connecting Stephanie to Robbie's pharmaceutical activities, how long before they started looking at me?

"Are you?" I asked quietly. "Going to defend him?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "Part of me wants to, because he was my friend. But if the rumors are true..." She shrugged helplessly. "I have to think about my own future too."

I understood. Self-preservation wasn't selfish when the alternative was getting dragged down with someone else's mistakes. But it still stung, watching another piece of my support system crumble under external pressure.

"Speaking of the future," I said, changing the subject before the silence got uncomfortable, "I got Beatrice in the spring showcase."

"Vespera, that's amazing!" Stephanie's face lit up, momentarily forgetting her family drama. "That's the lead role, right? With the Broadway director?"

"Yeah. It's a big opportunity."

She must have caught something in my tone because her enthusiasm dimmed. "But?"

"Dorian got Benedick."

The words hung in the air between us like a death sentence. Stephanie knew enough about my history with Dorian to understand why this was a disaster, even if she didn't know all the details.

"Can you request a different pairing? Talk to someone about the harassment?"

I laughed bitterly. "With what proof? Everything he's done has been technically within professional bounds. Requesting a cast change would make me look unprofessional, and I can't afford that reputation."

"Then what are you going to do?"

"Survive it." The words came out harsher than I intended. "Eight weeks of rehearsals, then the performance, then it's over."

But even as I said it, I knew it wouldn't be that simple. Dorian wouldn't waste an opportunity like this. Two months of forced proximity, professional requirements for physical contact, legitimate excuses to break down my boundaries piece by piece.

And my chemical defenses were already failing.

The read-through was scheduled for Thursday afternoon in the main rehearsal room. I arrived early, hoping to claim a seat that would minimize my exposure to Dorian's presence, but found him already there, lounging in a chair with his script open.

He'd positioned himself strategically—close enough to the director's table to look professional, but where his sandalwood scent would drift across the room to wherever I sat. I chose a chair as far away as possible and tried to focus on my script instead of the way his presence made my skin crawl.

Matt Wells commanded attention from the moment he entered.

Tall, silver-haired, with the kind of presence that made everyone sit up straighter, he carried decades of Broadway experience in his bearing.

Under normal circumstances, working with someone of his caliber would have been the opportunity of a lifetime.

"Much Ado About Nothing," he began, his voice carrying practiced authority, "is a play about masks. The masks we wear to protect ourselves, the masks we use to deceive others, and what happens when those masks are stripped away."

His gaze swept the room, making eye contact with each actor. When he looked at me, I saw approval, expectation, the weight of professional opportunity that made my chest tight with conflicting emotions.

"Beatrice and Benedick are particularly complex characters. Their verbal sparring masks deeper attraction, their cruelty toward each other stems from vulnerability. To make this work, my actors need to be willing to access real emotion, real chemistry."

My stomach clenched. Real chemistry. With Dorian.

"We'll be exploring intimate blocking as we develop these relationships. The romantic scenes need to feel authentic, not staged. I expect complete commitment from my leads."

Across the circle, Dorian's sandalwood scent spiked with something that made my hindbrain shriek warnings. He was practically vibrating with anticipation, clearly planning to use every moment of professional obligation to systematically destroy my boundaries.

"Let's begin with Act One, Scene One. Beatrice's entrance."

The read-through became a blur of anxiety and conflicting emotions.

Every time our characters interacted—every piece of witty banter, every moment of verbal sparring—felt like a battle I was losing before it started.

Dorian threw himself into Benedick's arrogance and charm, the underlying attraction that made the character's cruelty so devastating.

And despite everything, I found myself responding to the material. Not to him, but to the professional challenge, to Wells's obvious expertise, to the artistic opportunity I'd dreamed of for years. The excitement was real, even through the terror, which made everything worse.

Because that genuine enthusiasm for the work would make it impossible to maintain the emotional distance I needed to survive the next eight weeks.

"Excellent work, everyone," Wells said as we finished the final act. "I can see this is going to be a remarkable production. Vespera, Dorian—stay for a moment."

My blood turned to ice as the other actors filed out, leaving me alone with Wells and Dorian in the empty rehearsal room. Every instinct screamed at me to run, but I forced myself to remain seated, professional smile frozen on my face.

"You two have interesting chemistry," Wells observed, studying us with the analytical eye of someone who'd made a career out of reading human dynamics. "There's tension, conflict, but also something deeper. That's exactly what this play needs."

"We've worked together before," Dorian said smoothly. "We understand each other well."

The lie was technically true and completely misleading, but Wells nodded approvingly.

"Good. Because I'm going to be pushing you both hard over the next eight weeks. This production could launch careers, open doors, establish reputations. But only if you're willing to trust each other, to be vulnerable, to let the audience see the truth beneath your characters' masks."

Trust. Vulnerability. Truth. All the things that would destroy me.

"I expect complete professional commitment," Wells continued. "No personal drama interfering with the work, no holding back during intimate scenes, no letting whatever history you have affect the artistic process."

"Of course," I managed, proud that my voice stayed steady.

"Wonderful." Wells gathered his materials, clearly pleased with whatever dynamic he thought he was seeing between us. "We'll start blocking Monday with the masquerade scene—lots of physical contact, dancing, flirtation. Come prepared to work closely together."

The moment Wells left, the atmosphere in the room shifted. Dorian's professional mask slipped, revealing the predatory satisfaction underneath.

"This is going to be educational," he said, echoing my words from Tuesday but loading them with entirely different meaning. "Eight weeks of professional intimacy. I wonder how long your walls will last under that kind of pressure."

I stood, grabbing my bag and heading for the door. "Long enough."

His laughter followed me into the hallway, rich with anticipation and dark promise.

"We'll see about that, sweetheart. We'll see."

As I walked back to my dorm, script clutched in my trembling hands, I tried to calculate how many days I had to figure out a survival strategy. Eight weeks. Fifty-six days.

Fifty-six days of fighting a battle I was already losing, while my chemical defenses crumbled and my support system dissolved around me.

The performance wasn't until March, but I was already drowning.