Chapter 43 Vespera
forty-three
Vespera
The theater was already alive when I arrived four hours before curtain.
Tech crew swarmed the stage like organized chaos—adjusting lights, testing sound cues, running through scene transitions with military precision. I stood in the wings and let the familiar energy wash over me. This building had heartbeats, and right now it was racing.
Tomorrow night, Broadway scouts would sit in that audience. Tomorrow night, my entire future would be decided by two hours on that stage.
Tonight was my last chance to get it right.
I made my way through the backstage maze to my dressing room. Solo. A luxury reserved for leads, and still strange after months of sharing cramped spaces with the ensemble. My name was on the door in neat block letters: VESPERA LEVINE.
Not "scholarship student." Not "that Omega." My name. My role. My space.
Inside, my costume hung on the rack—period-accurate dress in deep burgundy, laced bodice that would be a bitch to get into alone, layers of fabric that would move beautifully under stage lights.
I'd done three fittings to get it perfect.
The costume designer had initially tried to give me something more "delicate," more "Omega appropriate. "
I'd told her exactly where she could shove her delicate, and she'd given me armor instead.
I sat at the vanity and stared at my reflection.
Stage makeup waited in neat rows—foundations, powders, the dramatic eye colors that would make my features visible from the back row.
My claiming marks were stark against my throat, permanent evidence of everything that had happened in the past two weeks.
Tomorrow, everyone would see them. The scouts. The donors. Faculty who'd watched me fight for every opportunity. Students who'd whispered about the scholarship Omega who thought she was special.
Let them see. Let them know I'd survived the claiming and come back stronger.
My phone buzzed. Dorian: We're here. Where do you want us?
Right. I'd agreed they could come to dress rehearsal. But on my terms.
Me: House seats. Back row. Don't interrupt tech notes.
Three dots appeared, then: Whatever you need.
I stared at that response. Two weeks ago, Dorian would have shown up anyway, sat wherever he wanted, made his presence impossible to ignore. Now he was asking permission. Following boundaries.
Growth was fucking weird.
I emerged from the dressing room forty minutes later, costume on, makeup done, hair pinned in the elaborate updo that took me three YouTube tutorials to master. The stage manager did a double-take when she saw me.
"Holy shit, Vespera."
"Too much?"
"Not enough." She grinned. "You look like you could murder someone and make it look good."
"That's literally what my character does."
"Then you nailed it."
The cast was gathering backstage, nervous energy crackling through the air. Ben appeared beside me, already in costume, looking unfairly good in period menswear.
"You ready?" he asked.
"Terrified."
"Good. Use it." He studied my face. "You're different. Since you came back from being sick."
I'd told everyone I'd had the flu. Nobody believed it, but campus politics meant nobody questioned it either.
"I stopped apologizing for taking up space," I said.
"About fucking time." He squeezed my shoulder. "Break a leg tonight. And tomorrow."
"You too."
The stage manager's voice cut through the chatter: "Places for top of show! This is dress rehearsal, people. Treat it like opening night. No stopping unless someone's dying."
I found my starting position in the wings, heart already racing. Through the gap in the curtain, the house lay empty. Seats waiting to be filled. Tomorrow those seats would hold my future.
And in the back row, barely visible in the dim house lights, three figures settled into their seats. Pack. Here to watch. To support.
Not to control.
That was new too.
De Scarzis's voice boomed from the tech booth: "Whenever you're ready, stage manager."
"House to half. Standby curtain." A pause. "And... go."
The lights came up. The curtain rose.
I stepped onto the stage and became someone else.
Act One was a fucking masterclass.
Not only from me—though I'd be lying if I said I wasn't killing it—but from everyone.
The entire cast had raised their game, feeding off the energy, building something bigger than the sum of our parts.
De Scarzis had barely taken notes, watching with that intense focus that meant he was seeing something unexpected.
Ben and I moved through our scenes like we'd been performing together for years instead of months. Every line landed. Every beat hit. The chemistry between our characters crackled with the right mix of attraction and danger.
During a quick scene change, I caught a glimpse of the pack in the back row. Dorian sat forward, completely absorbed. Oakley had a notebook balanced on his knee—of course he'd come prepared to take notes. Corvus had his phone out, probably recording for my reel.
They were here for me. Not to manage me. Not to control the narrative. Here.
Something in my chest loosened.
The act built to its climax—my character's first major confrontation, where she stopped being victim and became player. I channeled every argument with Dorian, every instant I'd felt powerless, every time I'd had to fight for the right to exist as myself.
The last line of Act One landed like a slap. The lights cut to black.
In the silence before the house lights came up for intermission, nobody moved. That perfect, terrible stretch where you don't know if you've transcended or crashed and burned. Then scattered applause erupted from the tech booth, from the crew in the wings, and I heard someone whisper, "Holy shit."
The house lights came up. I stumbled offstage on shaking legs, adrenaline making everything too bright, too loud, too much.
"Holy shit," Ben said, materializing beside me. "Where did that come from?"
"I don't know." My hands were trembling. "Was it too much?"
"Are you kidding? That was—" He shook his head. "That was extraordinary."
Intermission was controlled chaos after that.
Quick costume change—the second act dress was darker, more severe, showing my character's transformation. I fumbled with the laces, fingers still unsteady. The stage manager rushed past with notes clipped to her board, calling out lighting cues that needed adjustment.
In the dim backstage area, I leaned against the wall and tried to catch my breath. My phone was buzzing in my bag. I pulled it out, screen bright in the darkness.
Oakley: You're transcendent. Literally taking notes on technique.
I smiled despite my nerves. Of course he was taking notes.
Corvus: Got perfect footage for your reel. You're going to have your pick of offers.
Then Dorian: I've never seen anything like this. I love you.
My chest tightened. He'd said it before, during heat when everything was complicated by biology and need. But this was different. This was him watching me do the thing I loved, excel at it, and loving me for it. Not despite my ambition. Because of it.
I started to type a response, then stopped. What could I say that would match the enormity of what he'd witnessed? Of what we'd all survived to get here?
De Scarzis's voice crackled through the backstage monitor: "Whatever you're doing, don't stop. That scene in Act Two—give me MORE. The breakdown—I want to see you shatter."
"I can do that," I whispered to the empty hallway.
"Places for Act Two!" The stage manager's call cut through the instant.
I shoved my phone away and found my mark. One more act. The biggest emotional scenes still ahead. The monologue that had made me rewrite it three times because I needed it perfect.
The one where my character chose herself.
Deep breath. Center myself. Become someone else.
House lights down. Stage lights up.
I stepped back into the world we'd created.
Act Two was where I shattered.
The build was gradual—each scene adding pressure, each interaction revealing new layers of my character's desperation and determination. Then the big scene arrived. The one De Scarzis had told me to give him MORE.
I gave him everything.
My character breaking down, but not breaking apart. Crying but not weak. Vulnerable but not defeated. I channeled my mother's letter—that raw honesty about choosing yourself even when it costs everything. I channeled the heat, the claiming, the terror of losing control.
And then I channeled the choice to stay. To fight. To refuse to disappear.
When the scene ended, the silence from the house was deafening. I stayed in character, chest heaving, tears streaming down my face—real tears, not technique. Ben, playing opposite me, looked shaken.
The lights shifted to the next scene and we kept going, but something had changed. The energy had shifted from performance to something more primal. More real.
The final scenes built to my closing monologue. The one I'd rewritten obsessively, trying to get the words right. Trying to say everything I needed to say to my mother, to Dorian, to every person who'd ever told me to be smaller.
Center stage, spotlight tight, I delivered it straight to the audience:
"They'll tell you to be smaller. Quieter. More manageable." My voice carried to the back row without effort, trained technique making intimate confession feel like shared secret. "They'll say it's for your own good. For harmony. For love."
I paused, let the words settle.
"But there's no love in disappearing. No harmony in silence."
Another beat. The theater held its breath.
"So I choose differently. I choose loud. Messy. Mine." I smiled then, sharp and fierce. "I choose to build a kingdom where I'm not only the queen—I'm the architect."
The final line came out like a declaration of war: "And if that makes me difficult? Good. I've never wanted to be easy."
Blackout.
For three seconds, nothing. The kind of silence that makes actors wonder if they've fucked up spectacularly.