Chapter 47 - Vespera #2
"For now," Dorian says. "Ask me again in three months when winter hits and heating costs triple."
"We'll figure it out," Oakley says. "Same way we're figuring out everything else."
"Together," Corvus adds.
Together. The word settles into my chest, warm and real.
The next three weeks blur together in a chaos of rehearsals and work and learning to be adults without safety nets. The studio apartment becomes home in ways Northwood never did—cramped and loud and messy, but ours.
Dorian masters the coffee maker and becomes our morning person, brewing terrible coffee at six AM while the rest of us stumble around in various states of consciousness.
Oakley cooks when he has time, simple meals that stretch our grocery budget and taste like actual food.
Corvus creates spreadsheets for everything—expenses, schedules, optimal subway routes—because apparently romance doesn't cure his need to quantify reality.
I rehearse and perfect and push myself harder than I ever did at Northwood. Marcus Bellamy doesn't accept "good enough." He demands transcendent, and I give it to him every single day.
Eleanor calls twice more. I don't answer. She sends letters—actual physical letters delivered to the theater—offering money, opportunities, forgiveness if I'll just "be reasonable."
I burn them.
Then, two weeks before opening night, something changes.
I'm running through Act Three when Vivian Strasberg appears in the back of the theater. She watches for ten minutes, then signals Marcus.
They have a conversation I can't hear. Then Marcus calls break and Vivian approaches me.
"Walk with me," she says.
We step outside into the cold November air. Brooklyn looks gray and industrial in the afternoon light, nothing like the romanticized version I'd imagined.
"You're good," Vivian says without preamble. "Better than I expected, and my expectations were high."
"Thank you?"
"That performance at Northwood—the public claiming, the speech, the sheer audacity—that was marketing gold.
Two million views and climbing. People are talking about you.
" She lights a cigarette, offers me one.
I decline. "But here's the thing about being famous for being difficult.
It works once. Maybe twice. After that, you need to back it up with talent. "
"And?" I ask.
"And you have it." She takes a drag. "The talent. The presence. The fire. Marcus thinks you're the best actor he's worked with in five years, and he's a miserable bastard who never compliments anyone."
"So what's the problem?"
"No problem. An opportunity." Vivian meets my eyes. "This show runs for six weeks. If the reviews are good—and they will be, because you're phenomenal and the script is tight—we'll extend. Maybe transfer to a larger theater. Maybe even Broadway in a year or two."
My heart stops. "Broadway?"
"Don't get ahead of yourself," she warns. "That's years away. But the trajectory is there. If you want it. If you're willing to work for it. If you can handle the pressure of being the 'difficult Omega who claimed three Alphas on stage' while also being a serious artist."
"I can handle it," I say immediately.
"Good." She stubs out her cigarette. "Because you're going to be famous, Vespera Levine. The question is whether you're going to be famous for the stunt or for the work."
"The work," I say. "Always the work."
"Then prove it." She turns to go back inside. "Opening night is in two weeks. Show New York what you showed Northwood. But this time, let the performance speak for itself."
She leaves me standing in the cold Brooklyn afternoon, processing what she just said.
Broadway. Maybe. Eventually. If I'm good enough.
I pull out my phone and text the pack group chat.
Me: Vivian thinks I could make it to Broadway. Eventually.
Dorian: Of course you could.
Corvus: Statistically speaking, you're already in the top 1% of Off-Broadway performers. Broadway is the logical next step.
Oakley: We'll be front row for every show.
I smile at the phone, then pocket it and head back inside.
Marcus is waiting, arms crossed, looking impatient.
"Done processing your feelings?" he asks.
"Done," I confirm.
"Good. Act Three, Scene Two. Let's see if you can make me believe Emma's choosing destruction over compromise."
"I can," I say.
And I do. Again and again until Marcus finally nods, satisfied.
"That's it," he says. "That's the show. Now we just need to do it perfectly for six weeks straight."
"Easy," I say.
He laughs. "Nothing about this is easy, kid. But you? You're going to be fine."
I walk home through Brooklyn as the sun sets, the city glowing with lights and possibility. The apartment is full when I arrive—Dorian cooking pasta, Oakley running lines from his script, Corvus on a work call in the corner.
Home. Chaotic and cramped and perfect.
"How was rehearsal?" Dorian asks, stirring sauce.
"Good," I say. "Vivian thinks I might make Broadway someday."
"Of course you will," Oakley says, not even looking up from his flashcards. Like it's a given. Like there's no doubt.
"Probability is high," Corvus adds, ending his call. "Assuming consistent performance quality and favorable critical reception."
"Such romantics," I mutter, but I'm smiling.
Dorian serves pasta onto mismatched plates we bought at a thrift store. We crowd onto the couch that's too small for four people and eat dinner while watching a show on Corvus's laptop because we can't afford a TV.
It's nothing like Northwood. Nothing like the life Eleanor Ashworth planned for her son. Nothing like the comfortable future any of us were supposed to have.
It's everything.
Later, we somehow manage to all fit in the bed—a logistical nightmare that Corvus has actually made a diagram for, mapping optimal sleep positions.
"We need a bigger apartment," Oakley mutters, half-asleep.
"Maybe after the show runs," Dorian says. "If we pool income, we might afford a one-bedroom."
"Living the dream," I say dryly.
"We are though," Corvus says from somewhere near my feet. "Living the dream. Just a different dream than we expected."
He's right. This isn't the dream I had at seventeen, accepting my Northwood scholarship. This isn't the dream the pack had, claiming me during heat and expecting me to be manageable.
This is better. Harder. Real.
I fall asleep wedged between three Alphas in a bed too small for four people, in an apartment we can barely afford, in a city that doesn't care who we are or where we came from.
And I wouldn't change a single thing.