Chapter 45 Vespera
forty-five
Vespera
The Northwood Winter Showcase has never been this packed.
Every seat in Morrison Auditorium is filled—faculty in the front rows, students crammed into the balcony, and scattered throughout the audience, the people who actually matter. Industry professionals. Critics. Scouts.
Vivian Strasberg is in the fourth row, I saw her arrive twenty minutes ago with Diana Marchand from Broadway Collective. They're here to see the full production of Hedda Gabler—Northwood's prestige winter show, always a crowd-pleaser with professional potential.
But they're going to see me instead.
"Five minutes to places, Ms. Levine." The stage manager—a nervous sophomore who keeps checking her clipboard like it contains the secrets of the universe—hovers near the wings. "Act Four opens in five."
"I know." My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
I'm playing Hedda Tesman. The role I auditioned for, earned, perfected over three months of rehearsal. A woman trapped in a conventional marriage, suffocating under societal expectations, who chooses destruction over submission.
Appropriate, really.
The first three acts went perfectly. I've had the audience in my hand since my first entrance—Hedda's bored disdain for her husband Tesman, her cruel manipulation of Thea, her dangerous fascination with L?vborg. Every moment calculated to show a woman
desperately trying to control something, anything, in a life that's controlling her.
But Act Four is different. Act Four is where Hedda makes her final choice.
The pack is somewhere in the audience. I felt them arrive through the bonds—Dorian's possessive heat, Oakley's nervous warmth, Corvus's calculating presence. They're here to watch me perform, to see the Omega they claimed succeeding despite their best efforts to break me.
They have no idea what I'm about to do.
Eleanor Ashworth is here too. Front row, center. She made sure I knew she was coming, sent a formal RSVP to the theater department like this was a fucking wedding. Her ice-blue eyes—so much like her son's—have been tracking my every move since curtain.
She thinks I'm going to fail. Thinks the pressure will break me. Thinks I'll prove I was never good enough for Northwood, for her son, for any of this.
She's wrong.
"You're going to kill it," Stephanie says, appearing beside me. She's been running lights all night, crafting cues that make Hedda's drawing room feel like a beautiful prison. "Act Four is your best work. I've watched you rehearse this fifty times. It's perfect."
"It has to be more than perfect." I watch the curtain, waiting for my entrance cue. "It has to be transcendent."
"It will be." She squeezes my shoulder. "Because you're not playing Hedda anymore. You are Hedda."
She's right. For three acts, I've been Hedda Tesman—bored, cruel, desperate for control. Now comes the final act. The one where everything falls apart. Where Hedda realizes she's cornered and makes her choice.
The stage manager gives me the signal. I take my position.
Act Four. Hedda's last stand.
I enter the drawing room set—all period furniture and tasteful oppression. Tesman is there, worried about the manuscript. Thea is devastated. Judge Brack thinks he has me cornered.
And Hedda? Hedda is done performing.
I move through the scene with cold precision. Hedda realizing L?vborg is dead. Hedda facing Judge Brack's threats. Hedda understanding that every choice has been taken from her except one.
"People don't do such things," I say to Brack, Ibsen's most famous line delivered with perfect, devastating calm.
Then I walk offstage and the audience holds its breath.
The pistol shot cracks through the theater. Tesman and Thea gasp. Brack delivers his final line: "Good God! People don't do such things!"
The lights hold on the drawing room—horror, shock, the aftermath of Hedda's final refusal to be controlled.
Then blackout.
Three seconds of silence.
When the lights come back up for curtain call, the applause is immediate and thunderous. The cast takes their bows. Then it's my turn, and I step forward as Hedda one last time.
Standing ovation. Complete. The kind that makes your eyes sting.
I take my bows with the cast. The applause is everything I dreamed it would be—genuine, enthusiastic, the kind that means you moved people.
When the curtain finally falls, I'm shaking with adrenaline.
"Brilliant," Professor De Scarzis says, finding me in the wings. "That was absolutely brilliant. You embodied Hedda completely."
"Thank you," I manage.
"The scouts want to speak with you," she continues. "Vivian Strasberg specifically asked. They're at the reception in the lobby."
The reception. Of course. The mandatory after-party where donors schmooze and scouts hunt for talent and Eleanor Ashworth will be holding court.
Perfect.
I change out of costume but keep my stage makeup—bold and dramatic, exactly how I need to look for what comes next. The pack finds me backstage, and I feel their presence through the bonds before I see them.
"You were incredible," Dorian says, and there's genuine awe in his voice.
"Devastating," Oakley adds.
"Technically flawless with perfect emotional authenticity," Corvus observes. "The scouts noticed."
"Good," I say. "Because I'm about to give them something else to notice."
"What do you mean?" Dorian asks.
I smile. "You'll see. Just follow my lead."
The lobby reception is packed. Champagne flows. Faculty mingles with donors. Students network desperately. And there, near the center of it all, Vivian Strasberg and Diana Marchand stand talking to Professor De Scarzis.
Eleanor Ashworth is positioned strategically between me and the scouts, like a guard dog protecting territory.
I walk straight toward Vivian anyway.
"Ms. Levine," Vivian says, seeing me approach. Her eyes light up with genuine interest. "That was extraordinary work. The way you inhabited Hedda—that wasn't acting. That was possession."
"Thank you," I say. "It's a role I understand deeply."
"A woman trapped by social expectations who refuses to submit," Diana adds. "Very on-brand for you, I'd imagine."
Before I can respond, Eleanor Ashworth materializes beside us.
"Vivian, Diana," she says smoothly. "How lovely to see you both. I trust you enjoyed the performance?"
"Very much," Vivian says. "Your theater program produces excellent work."
"We try," Eleanor says. Her eyes flick to me, ice-cold. "Though of course, some students require more... management than others."
The word lands like a slap.
"Management," I repeat slowly.
"Vespera has been a challenging student," Eleanor continues, speaking about me like I'm not standing right there. "Talented, certainly. But difficult. Resistant to guidance. The kind of personality that struggles in professional environments that require collaboration and—"
"Excuse me," Vivian interrupts, voice sharp. "Are you actually badmouthing your own student to industry professionals?"
Eleanor's smile doesn't waver. "I'm providing context. Ms. Levine has... complicated personal situations that affect her professionalism."
"Complicated," I say. "You mean your son claiming me during heat against my will?"
The conversation around us goes quiet. People turning, listening.
Eleanor's composure cracks slightly. "That's a private family matter—"
"There's nothing private about it," I say, voice carrying. "Your son and his pack marked me without consent. Stalked me across campus. Made my life hell because you told them to break me."
"That's not—" Eleanor starts.
"And now you're trying to sabotage my career before it starts," I continue. "Telling scouts I'm difficult. Unmanageable. Unprofessional. Because you're terrified I might actually succeed without your permission."
The pack has moved closer. I feel them at my back, supportive presence.
"You're making a scene," Eleanor hisses.
"Good." I turn to face the growing crowd. "Let's make it a really good scene."
I look at Dorian, Oakley, Corvus. "Kneel."
"Vespera—" Dorian starts, confused.
"I said kneel. Here. Now. In front of everyone."
Understanding flashes across Dorian's face. Then something that might be relief. He drops to his knees in the middle of the Morrison Auditorium lobby, in his expensive suit, in front of his mother and the scouts and everyone who matters.
Oakley and Corvus follow. Three Alphas kneeling for the Omega they claimed.
The crowd gasps. Phones come out. This is going to be everywhere by morning.
Perfect.
"They marked me in private during heat," I say, voice clear. "When I couldn't consent properly. When I was vulnerable. When it could be hidden."
I move to Dorian first, tilt his chin up. His eyes are wide but there's pride there too. Understanding.
"But I'm marking them here," I continue. "Publicly. Clear-headed. Choosing."
I bite down on his throat, hard and claiming. He gasps but doesn't pull away. When I step back, blood wells from the mark—visible, unmistakable proof.
Eleanor makes a strangled sound.
I move to Oakley next. "You're mine," I tell him, and mark him just as thoroughly. His moan is loud enough for everyone to hear.
Finally Corvus. "You understand what this means," I say quietly. "What I'm doing."
"Complete reversal," he confirms. "Public claiming as statement. It's brilliant."
"Then take it," I say, and bite down.
When I step back, all three of them are bleeding, marked, mine in a way that can't be hidden or denied.
I turn to Eleanor. "That's the difference. They claimed me in darkness. I claimed them in light. They took without asking. I'm giving them a choice right now—come with me to New York, or stay here and be the Alphas who got publicly claimed by a scholarship Omega."
Silence. Complete silence in the lobby.
Then Dorian stands. Takes my hand. "New York."
"New York," Oakley echoes, standing.
"Obviously New York," Corvus adds, rising.
Eleanor's face cycles through rage, shock, grief. "Dorian, you can't—"
"I just did, Mother." He touches the mark on his throat. "She's right. This is choice. Real choice. And I'm choosing her."
Vivian Strasberg starts clapping. Slow, deliberate, impressed. "Well," she says. "That was one hell of a curtain call."
"I have that effect," I say.
"Walk with me," Vivian says, gesturing away from Eleanor. Diana follows, grinning.
We move to a quieter corner while the lobby erupts into chaos behind us.
"That was either the bravest thing I've ever seen or the most reckless," Vivian says. "I can't decide which."
"Can it be both?" I ask.
"It can be both." She pulls out a business card. "Here's the thing. That performance tonight—Hedda—was Broadway caliber. And what you just did in this lobby? That's the kind of presence that fills theaters. People want to see someone who refuses to be manageable."
"Are you offering me something?" I ask carefully.
"Off-Broadway production," Diana says. "Starts rehearsals in three weeks. Female lead, Omega character who chooses destruction over submission. The script could have been written for you."
"I'll do it," I say immediately.
"Don't you want to know the pay?" Vivian asks, amused.
"I don't care about the pay. I care about the work."
"She's perfect," Diana says to Vivian. "Told you."
Vivian hands me another card. "Call me Monday. We'll work out details. And bring your pack—New York is progressive enough that this—" she gestures at the claiming marks "—won't be a problem if you can perform like you did tonight."
They leave, and I'm standing there with three bleeding Alphas and the ashes of Eleanor Ashworth's plans.
"We should go," Corvus says. "Before Eleanor regroups."
"Agreed," I say.
We make it out of Morrison through the side exit. Behind us, I hear Eleanor's voice rising, angry and shocked and losing control.
But we're already gone.
In Dorian's car, heading back to pack, Oakley starts laughing.
"What?" I ask.
"You just marked us in front of everyone," he says. "In front of Dorian's mother, the scouts, the entire theater department. That was insane."
"That was necessary," I correct.
"That was perfect," Dorian says from the driver's seat, touching his bleeding throat. "You didn't just claim us. You made a statement."
"About consent," Corvus adds. "About choice. About power dynamics. It was elegant psychological warfare."
"It was me refusing to be Hedda," I say. "She shot herself to escape. I rewrote the ending instead."
"So what now?" Oakley asks.
"Now we pack," I say. "We have three weeks before rehearsals start. We need to find an apartment in New York, figure out logistics, and get the hell out of Connecticut."
"We're really doing this," Dorian says, and I hear the wonder in his voice. "Leaving Northwood. Leaving my mother. Starting over."
"We're really doing this," I confirm.
We drive back to campus in the early morning darkness. Behind us, Northwood and Eleanor Ashworth and everything they tried to make us.
Ahead of us, New York and uncertainty and freedom.
I touch the marks on each of their throats—my marks, my claiming, my choice.
"This is going to be everywhere by morning," Corvus observes. "The video. Someone definitely recorded it."
"Good," I say. "Let them see what it looks like when Omegas stop asking permission."
We drive into the night, leaving Northwood behind. Ahead of us is New York. Ahead of us is freedom.
And I claimed it myself, teeth and all.