Chapter 46 Dorian #2
We pile into the car—Vespera in front with me, Corvus and Oakley in back with bags stacked around them. I take one last look at the pack house in the rearview mirror—the Victorian mansion on Ashworth property, the place where we lived as who we were supposed to be.
Then I pull onto the road at three in the morning, carrying everything we own and nothing we'll miss.
Behind us, the Auditorium is still lit up. I can see students streaming out, phones glowing, no doubt watching and rewatching the video of Vespera claiming us on stage.
Good. Let them watch. Let them see what it looks like when Omegas stop asking permission.
"Music?" Vespera asks, plugging her phone into the aux cord.
"Dealer's choice," I say.
She picks something with a driving beat and heavy bass, and we speed down the highway toward New York with the windows down and the music up and absolutely no idea what we're doing.
"So," Corvus says from the back. "Do we have a plan?"
"I have a plan," Vespera says. "You three are winging it."
"That's not reassuring," Oakley mutters.
"Reassuring isn't really my brand," Vespera counters. "Dramatic exits and burning bridges? Much more my style."
I laugh, reaching over to take her hand. "What's the plan?"
"Vivian Strasberg gave me a contact for temporary housing—subletting from an actress who's on tour. Studio apartment in Hell's Kitchen, month-to-month. I can afford it for three months with my savings."
"Then what?" Corvus asks.
"Then we figure it out." She turns to look at all of us. "I start rehearsals in two days. The show runs for six weeks. If it goes well, there will be more work. If it doesn't..." She shrugs. "We'll figure that out too."
"And us?" Oakley asks quietly. "What do we do?"
"Whatever you want," Vespera says. "I'm not your keeper. You want to defer graduate programs? Get jobs? Go back to school in New York? Your choice."
"Just like that?" I ask. "We follow you to New York and you're fine with us figuring out our own lives?"
"Just like that," she confirms. "I claimed you because I want you. Not because I want to control you. You're adults. You can handle your own shit."
"That's very reasonable," Corvus observes.
"Don't sound so surprised," Vespera says. "I can be reasonable when people aren't trying to cage me."
We drive in comfortable silence for a while. The highway is empty at this hour, just us and long-haul trucks and the occasional insomniac. The sky starts to lighten around five AM, dawn breaking over the landscape.
"Hey," Vespera says quietly. "Can I tell you something?"
"Anything," I say.
"I was terrified up there," she admits. "On that stage. Marking you in front of everyone. I thought I might pass out from adrenaline."
"You didn't look terrified," Oakley says. "You looked like a goddess."
"That's called acting," she says, but I hear the smile in her voice. "Inside I was absolutely losing my shit. What if you'd said no? What if you'd left the stage? What if I'd just humiliated myself in front of everyone?"
"We wouldn't have said no," I tell her. "Couldn't have said no. The moment you said 'kneel,' that was it. Biology, bond, whatever—didn't matter. We were yours."
"Are yours," Corvus corrects. "Present tense."
"Yeah," Vespera says softly. "You are."
We cross into New York state around six AM. The sun is fully up now, casting golden light across everything. It feels symbolic in a way that's probably too on-the-nose to actually articulate, but I feel it anyway.
New dawn. New city. New life.
"There it is," Vespera says as the Manhattan skyline comes into view. "Home."
"We've never even been to New York," Oakley points out.
"Doesn't matter," she says. "It's home because we choose it. Same way we chose each other."
She's right. Northwood was assigned to us—legacy students following family tradition. But this? This is ours.
We drive into Manhattan as the city wakes up. Hell's Kitchen is cramped and chaotic and smells vaguely of garbage and pizza and possibility.
The apartment is a fifth-floor walk-up in a building that's seen better decades. The studio is tiny—barely room for a bed and a couch and a kitchenette that's more suggestion than reality.
"It's perfect," Vespera says, dropping her duffel bag with the kind of reverence usually reserved for palaces.
"It's a shoebox," I say.
"It's ours," she corrects. "No RAs. No curfews. No Eleanor Ashworth deciding what's appropriate."
She's right. It's perfect.
We spend the morning figuring out logistics. Who sleeps where (all four of us on the bed, apparently). Where to store clothes (creative stacking). How to share one bathroom (prayer and coordination).
Around noon, Vespera's phone rings. She looks at the screen and grins.
"It's Vivian," she says, answering on speaker. "Hello?"
"Ms. Levine," Vivian Strasberg's voice is amused. "I've been receiving emails all morning from Northwood faculty, board members, and one very angry matriarch demanding to know if I'm aware I've hired a 'scandalous Omega with inappropriate pack dynamics.'"
"And?" Vespera asks.
"And I told them the video of your performance has two million views already," Vivian says. "Along with hashtags like #ChoosingLoud and #DifficultWomen trending on three platforms. You're already famous, darling. Before you've even set foot on our stage."
Vespera's grin widens. "Is that good or bad?"
"It's perfect," Vivian says. "You're exactly the kind of artist we want. Controversial. Unapologetic. Impossible to ignore. See you at rehearsal tomorrow?"
"I'll be there," Vespera promises.
She hangs up and looks at the three of us—her pack, her Alphas, her choice.
"We did it," she says. "We actually fucking did it."
"You did it," Corvus corrects. "We just followed."
"No," she says firmly. "We did it. Together. You chose me over everything your families built. That matters."
"So what now?" Oakley asks.
"Now?" Vespera considers. "Now we order pizza, because I'm starving. Then we figure out how four people share a shower. Then we sleep, because we've been up for twenty-four hours. And tomorrow?"
She grins, sharp and dangerous and free.
"Tomorrow I start rehearsals. Tomorrow you three figure out New York. Tomorrow we start building something real."
"No plans?" I ask. "No strategy?"
"Plans are for people who have safety nets," she says. "We're freefall now. Just hold on tight and see where we land."
She's right. We're freefall. No money, no connections, no family support. Just four people and claiming marks and a tiny apartment in Hell's Kitchen that smells like someone else's life.
It's terrifying.
It's perfect.
And as I watch Vespera order pizza like we didn't just burn down everything we knew, I realize I wouldn't change a single thing.
We chose loud. We chose messy. We chose each other.
And that's enough.