Chapter 47 - Vespera
forty-seven
Vespera
Week One in New York, and I remember why people say if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere.
The apartment is somehow smaller than it looked when we first arrived.
Four people in a studio meant for one creates a special kind of chaos—Dorian's expensive clothes fighting for closet space with my three thrift store dresses, Corvus's laptop setup competing with Oakley's scripts and audition sides for the single desk, everyone negotiating shower schedules like we're broking international treaties.
But it works. Somehow, impossibly, it works.
Rehearsals for "The Omega's Gambit"—Vivian Strasberg's new production—are brutal.
Six hours a day, six days a week, with a director who makes Professor De Scarzis look lenient.
Marcus Bellamy doesn't care that I'm young or new or still figuring out how to be a professional.
He cares that I deliver, every single time.
I love it.
"Again," Marcus calls from the house. We're working on Act Two, Scene Three—the confrontation between my character Emma and the Alpha council who thinks they can control her future. "More rage. Less performance. I want to see the fury underneath."
I reset to my mark. The other actors shift back into position. We're in a black box theater in Brooklyn, the kind of space where real work happens before anyone gives a shit about pretty sets or costumes.
"From 'You think I'll just accept this,'" Marcus instructs.
I take a breath, find Emma's rage underneath Vespera's exhaustion, and let it rip.
"You think I'll just accept this?" The words come out sharp enough to draw blood. "That I'll sit quietly while you auction off my future to the highest bidder? That biology is destiny and Omegas should be grateful for any scraps you throw?"
My scene partner—a Beta actor named James who actually gets what this play is about—steps forward with the perfect amount of condescension.
"It's not personal," he says. "It's tradition."
"Fuck tradition." I let Emma's fury fill the space. "Tradition is just another word for comfortable oppression. For systems that benefit you and destroy me. You want me compliant? Manageable? Appropriate?"
I laugh, and it's Medea's laugh, the one I used at Northwood.
"Then you should have killed me when you had the chance."
"Yes!" Marcus shouts. "That's it. That's the fire I need. Take five, everyone."
The other actors disperse, heading for coffee and cigarettes and whatever helps them reset. I grab my water bottle and check my phone.
Three missed calls from an unknown number. Four texts from the pack group chat.
Dorian: Interview went well. They want to see me again tomorrow.
Oakley: Callback for off-off-Broadway showcase. Fingers crossed.
Corvus: Found a consulting gig. Remote work, decent pay. Details later.
I smile at the phone. They're figuring it out. We're all figuring it out.
The unknown number calls again. I almost ignore it, but something makes me answer.
"Hello?"
"Ms. Levine." Eleanor Ashworth's voice is ice. "We need to talk."
I almost hang up. Should hang up. But curiosity wins.
"How did you get this number?"
"I have resources," she says. "And an offer."
"I don't want anything you're offering."
"Hear me out." There's something in her voice—not quite desperation, but close. "You're talented. I'll admit that. The video of your performance has been... educational."
"Educational."
"You proved your point," she continues. "You're not manageable. Fine. I respect that. But you're also not stupid, and this—" She pauses. "This poverty you're choosing isn't sustainable."
"We're managing fine."
"For now," Eleanor says. "But winter in New York is expensive. And when the show closes, then what? You have Corvus's consulting money and Oakley's allowance, yes. But how long before you resent carrying Dorian financially? Before the pack fractures over money?"
The guilt lands differently now. Not because we're starving, but because she's right that Dorian has nothing while Corvus and Oakley have family safety nets.
"We're pack," I say firmly. "That means we share everything. Including financial burden."
"Noble," Eleanor says. "But nobility doesn't pay rent. Here's my offer—come back to Northwood. All four of you. I'll smooth things over with the board, restore Dorian's trust fund, ensure all of you can finish your degrees. In exchange, you—"
"Let me guess," I interrupt. "I be 'appropriate.' I stop making scenes. I let the Ashworth family control the narrative about my relationship with your son."
"I prefer 'negotiate a mutually beneficial arrangement,'" Eleanor says. "But essentially, yes."
"No."
"Think about it—"
"I said no." My voice goes hard. "You don't get to threaten me with poverty and then offer to save me if I'll just be quiet. That's the same cage with prettier bars."
"You're making a mistake."
"Maybe," I say. "But it's my mistake to make."
I hang up before she can respond.
My hands are shaking. Not from fear—from rage. The audacity of thinking I'd trade my freedom for financial security, like those are the only options.
"Problem?" Marcus asks, appearing beside me.
"Just someone trying to convince me I've made a terrible mistake," I say.
He snorts. "You're twenty years old, living in a shoebox in Hell's Kitchen, working for peanuts on a show that might close after two weeks. Of course you've made a mistake. The question is whether it's the kind of mistake that matters."
"Does it matter?" I ask.
"Depends." He considers me for a long moment. "Will you regret this when you're forty? Will you look back and wish you'd chosen comfortable over real?"
"No," I say immediately.
"Then it's not a mistake. It's a choice." He claps my shoulder. "And you made one hell of a choice, based on that video. Marked three Alphas on stage like you were claiming territory. That takes balls."
"Or stupidity."
"Same thing in theater," he says. "Now get back to work. Act Two needs to be locked by Friday."
I throw myself into rehearsal for another three hours. When we finally break for the day, I'm exhausted, covered in sweat, and happier than I've been in months.
This is real. This is mine. This is work I earned with talent, not designation.
I take the subway back to Hell's Kitchen—learning the routes, figuring out how to be a New Yorker. The apartment is empty when I arrive, which is rare. Usually someone is always here, working or studying or just existing in the tiny space we're learning to share.
But today it's just me, and I take advantage of the solitude to shower without negotiating, to change into comfortable clothes, to breathe.
My phone buzzes with an email notification.
Subject: Formal Withdrawal Processed - Northwood Academy
I open it, already knowing what it says. The official documentation that Vespera Levine is no longer a student at Northwood, that my scholarship has been terminated, that I'm free.
There's an attachment. I click it without thinking.
It's a letter. Handwritten. From Professor De Scarzis.
Vespera,
I won't pretend to understand everything that happened at the showcase. But I watched you perform Medea like you were born for that role. I watched you claim your power in the most public way possible. And I thought you should know—I'm proud of you.
What you did took courage. The kind of courage most actors never find. You didn't just perform a role. You lived it. And in doing so, you taught every student in that audience what it means to choose yourself over safety.
The theater department will miss you. I will miss you. But I'm excited to see what you build in New York.
Professor Maria De Scarzis
P.S. - I've included a recommendation letter for any future opportunities. You've earned it.
I read it three times, vision blurring with tears I refuse to shed. She understood. Despite everything, despite the chaos and scandal and Eleanor Ashworth's fury, she understood.
The door opens and the pack files in—Dorian still in his interview clothes, Oakley in scrubs from shadowing at an urgent care clinic, Corvus with his laptop bag slung over his shoulder.
"You're home early," Dorian says, then sees my face. "What happened?"
I show him the email, the letter. He reads it, then passes it to the others.
"She gets it," Oakley says softly. "She actually gets it."
"Not everyone thinks we're insane," Corvus observes.
"Just most people," I counter, but I'm smiling.
Dorian pulls me into his arms. I can smell sandalwood and something underneath—stress, exhaustion, determination. He's been interviewing at theaters all week, assistant stage manager positions that pay barely anything but could lead somewhere.
"How'd it go?" I ask against his chest.
"I got the job," he says. "Brooklyn Community Theater. Assistant stage manager for their winter season. It pays thirty thousand a year, which is basically nothing in New York, but—"
"But it's a job," I finish. "In theater. Doing what you love."
"Yeah." He sounds almost surprised. "I thought I'd hate starting at the bottom. Thought I'd miss the prestige of Northwood, the connections, the easy path Mother planned."
"And?"
"And I don't." He kisses the top of my head. "This is real. I earned it with my resume and interview skills, not family connections. It feels good."
"I got cast in an off-off-Broadway showcase," Oakley adds. "Starts next week. Tiny theater, no pay, but it's stage time. And I got a day job waiting tables to cover rent."
"That's amazing," I say.
"It's a start," he corrects. "I'll audition, do showcases, build my resume the hard way. It'll take longer than Northwood's connections would have, but I'll do it without family money. Without owing anyone."
"I secured a consulting contract," Corvus says. "Data analysis for a startup. Fully remote, thirty hours a week, enough to cover my portion of rent and expenses."
I look at the three of them—my pack, figuring out New York, building something real.
"We're doing it," I say. "We're actually making this work."