Chapter 48 - Vespera
forty-eight
Vespera
Eight months in New York, and we've not just survived—we've thrived.
"The Omega's Gambit" closed after a twelve-week run—extended twice because of ticket demand and critical acclaim. The reviews called my performance "revelatory" and "fierce" and "the kind of raw talent that reminds you why theater matters."
The New York Times compared me to a young Meryl Streep. Village Voice said I was "what happens when you give an Omega a platform and get the fuck out of her way."
But the review that mattered most was Vivian Strasberg walking into my dressing room after closing night and saying, "I have three scripts for you to read. All leading roles. All starting within the next six months."
Three scripts. Three jobs. A career that's actually happening.
We're still in the Queens one-bedroom—comfortable with Corvus and Oakley's family support covering what my theater income doesn't. Dorian works at the Brooklyn Community Theater, determined to build his career without Ashworth money. It's tight sometimes, but we're making it work.
I'm sitting in our actual living room reading through the first script when someone knocks on the door.
Dorian answers it, then goes very still.
"Hello, son," Harrison Ashworth says.
Dorian's father. I've only seen him in photos—distinguished, salt-and-pepper hair, the quiet power Eleanor performs but Harrison just is. He's standing in our doorway in an expensive suit, looking completely out of place in our modest Queens building.
"Dad," Dorian says, shocked. "What are you doing here?"
"May I come in?" Harrison asks.
Dorian steps aside, and his father enters. Eleanor is behind him, and my stomach drops. Both of them. Together. This can't be good.
"We won't stay long," Harrison says, taking in the apartment with a glance that reveals nothing. "We wanted to speak with all of you."
The pack has gathered—Corvus and Oakley emerging from various corners, forming a protective unit around me.
"Say what you came to say," Dorian says, voice tight.
Harrison looks at his son for a long moment. "I owe you an apology. I've owed it for eight months, but I was too proud to give it."
Silence.
"When you left," Harrison continues, "I told myself you'd fail.
Come crawling back within a month. When you didn't, I told myself you'd fail by six months.
When the reviews for your Off-Broadway show started coming in—when I saw that you were actually succeeding—I realized the only person who'd failed was me. "
"You cut me off," Dorian says. "Completely. Because I chose her."
"I did." Harrison's voice is steady, honest. "And I was wrong. Your mother was wrong. We both operated from fear—fear of losing you, fear of losing control, fear of what people would say. We made our fears your problem."
Eleanor steps forward. "I've been attending your shows, Dorian. Quietly. Watching from the back. And I've been watching you with Vespera and your pack. You're happy. Genuinely happy. More than you ever were following our plans."
"I am," Dorian says carefully.
"We'd like to fix this," Harrison says. "Your trust fund will be restored, effective immediately. No conditions. No strings. Use it however you choose—invest it, ignore it, donate it. It's yours."
"And more than that," Eleanor adds, looking at me, "we'd like to apologize to Vespera. For trying to destroy you. For seeing you as a threat instead of the woman our son chose. For every cruel thing I said and did."
I don't know what to say. Eight months ago I would have thrown them out. But eight months of watching Dorian build a life without them, seeing the grief underneath his determination—maybe reconciliation is possible.
"Why now?" I ask.
"Because enough time has passed for us to see clearly," Harrison says.
"Because you've proven you don't need us, which paradoxically makes us want to be part of this.
And because—" He looks at Eleanor. "Because we don't want to be the kind of parents who only have a relationship with their son through lawyers and trust fund statements. "
"Julian," Dorian says quietly.
"Yes," Harrison admits. "We lost Julian seven years ago because we couldn't accept his choices. We're not losing you too."
The name hangs in the air—Dorian's brother, now living in Brooklyn with his own mate.
"Have you reached out to him?" Dorian asks.
"Not yet," Eleanor says. "We wanted to start here. With you. To prove we've actually changed before we try to repair that damage."
Dorian looks at me. At the pack. Silent question—what do you think?
"I think," I say carefully, "that people can change. But words are easy. Trust is earned."
"We understand," Harrison says. "We're not asking for immediate forgiveness. We're asking for a chance."
"Dinner," Dorian says finally. "Next week. Just dinner. We'll see how it goes."
"That's more than we deserve," Eleanor says. "Thank you."
They leave, and Dorian stands there processing.
"Your father seems different than your mother," Corvus observes.
"He is," Dorian says. "Quieter but no less scary. But when he decides something, he commits. If he's apologizing, he means it."
"And Eleanor?" I ask.
"I don't know," Dorian admits. "But maybe eight months was enough time for her to actually change. Or maybe she's just gotten better at manipulation. Either way—"
"We proceed carefully," I finish.
"Exactly." He's been promoted to stage manager at Brooklyn Community Theater, which comes with a modest pay increase and the kind of job satisfaction that used to confuse him.
"Still reading?" he asks, dropping his bag and immediately pulling me into his arms. Eight months and I still feel the bond flare when he touches me, that fated mate connection that tried to control me and now just... exists. Part of our relationship but not all of it.
"Still reading," I confirm. "This one's good. Really good. Lesbian Omega love story set against Alpha-supremacist politics. The lead is complex and angry and doesn't apologize for either."
"Sounds perfect for you," he says, kissing my neck where his claiming mark sits. It's faded now, silvered like old scars, but still visible. "When's it start?"
"Rehearsals in July. Three-month run." I lean back against him. "Which means I'll have April through June to work on something else if I want."
"Do you want?"
"Maybe." I set the script aside. "Vivian wants me to audition for a Marcus Bellamy workshop production in May. Experimental piece about Omega resistance movements. It's not traditional theater—more like performance art meets political protest."
"That sounds very on-brand for you," Corvus observes from his desk setup in the corner. He's still doing consulting work, but now for three clients instead of one. Turns out being ruthlessly analytical is a marketable skill when you're not using it to destroy people's lives.
"I'll think about it," I say. "How was work?"
"Profitable," Corvus says. "My largest client wants to extend my contract for another year. Significant raise."
"That's amazing," Oakley calls from the bedroom, where he's reviewing a script.
He's six weeks into a run at an experimental theater in Brooklyn and loving every exhausting moment.
He's waiting tables during the day, auditioning constantly, slowly building a resume.
It's a brutal schedule but he's thriving.
We're all thriving, actually. Against every odd, every prediction, every warning from Eleanor Ashworth about poverty and failure.
Speaking of Eleanor—
My phone buzzes with an email notification. I almost ignore it, but the subject line catches my attention.
Subject: Congratulations - E. Ashworth
I open it, curious.
Vespera,
I saw the Drama Desk nomination announcement this morning. Outstanding Actress in a Play at twenty years old. I knew you were talented the first time I saw you perform, even though I tried to pretend I didn't.
I've been attending your shows quietly—back row, plain clothes, trying not to intrude. Watching you command that stage reminds me why I fell in love with theater before I let the Ashworth name convince me to give it up.
You're extraordinary. And you're good for my son in ways I couldn't have predicted. He's happier now, working in theater and living his own life, than he ever was following my plans.
I'm proud of both of you. All four of you, really. You built something real without my help, and you're succeeding on your own terms.
I hope you'll consider having dinner with me sometime. Not as adversaries. As family.
Eleanor
I read it twice. Six months ago, this would have felt like manipulation. Now it just feels like a mother trying to be part of her son's life without controlling it.
"Everything okay?" Dorian asks, seeing my expression.
I'm sitting in our actual living room reading through the first script when Dorian gets home from the theater. He's been promoted to stage manager at Brooklyn Community Theater, which comes with a modest pay increase and the kind of job satisfaction that used to confuse him.
"Still reading?" he asks, dropping his bag and immediately pulling me into his arms. Eight months and I still feel the bond flare when he touches me, that fated mate connection that tried to control me and now just... exists. Part of our relationship but not all of it.
"Still reading," I confirm. "This one's good. Really good. Lesbian Omega love story set against Alpha-supremacist politics. The lead is complex and angry and doesn't apologize for either."
"Sounds perfect for you," he says, kissing my neck where his claiming mark sits. It's faded now, silvered like old scars, but still visible. "When's it start?"
"Rehearsals in July. Three-month run." I lean back against him. "Which means I'll have April through June to work on something else if I want."
"Do you want?"
"Maybe." I set the script aside. "Vivian wants me to audition for a Marcus Bellamy workshop production in May. Experimental piece about Omega resistance movements. It's not traditional theater—more like performance art meets political protest."
"That sounds very on-brand for you," Corvus observes from his desk setup in the corner. He's still doing consulting work, but now for three clients instead of one. Turns out being ruthlessly analytical is a marketable skill when you're not using it to destroy people's lives.
"I'll think about it," I say. "How was work?"
"Profitable," Corvus says. "My largest client wants to extend my contract for another year. Significant raise."
"That's amazing," Oakley calls from the bedroom, where he's reviewing a script.
He's six weeks into a run at an experimental theater in Brooklyn and loving every exhausting moment.
He's waiting tables during the day, auditioning constantly, slowly building a resume.
It's a brutal schedule but he's thriving.
We're all thriving, actually. Against every odd, every prediction, every warning from Eleanor Ashworth about poverty and failure.
Well. Former warnings. She and Harrison showed up yesterday. The dinner next week should be interesting.
My phone rings—Vivian Strasberg.
"Vespera," she says when I answer. "Quick question. Are you free June first?"
"Probably? Why?"
"Because the Drama Desk Awards are that night. And 'The Omega's Gambit' is nominated for Outstanding Production. You're nominated for Outstanding Actress in a Play."
The world stops.
"I'm what?"
"Nominated. For a Drama Desk Award. One of the most prestigious honors in Off-Broadway theater." She sounds delighted. "I told you you were good. Now everyone else agrees."
"I—" Words fail me. "That's—"
"Terrifying? Exciting? Life-changing?" Vivian laughs. "All of the above. You probably won't win—you're up against actresses with decades more experience. But being nominated at twenty? That's unheard of. That's career-defining."
"Oh my god," I manage.
"Get a dress," Vivian says. "Something dramatic. Something that says 'I claimed three Alphas on stage and I'd do it again.' I'll send details."
She hangs up.
I stand there, phone in hand, processing what just happened.
"Drama Desk nomination," I say to the room. "For my first Off-Broadway show. At twenty years old."
The pack explodes. Dorian picks me up and spins me. Oakley whoops loud enough to concern the neighbors. Corvus actually smiles, which is approximately the same as someone else throwing a parade.
"This calls for celebration," Dorian says.
"We can't afford fancy celebration," I point out.
"We can afford pizza and cheap champagne," Corvus counters. "That's fancy enough."
We order too much food and buy a fifteen-dollar bottle of champagne that tastes like regret and victory. We crowd onto our second-hand couch and watch YouTube videos of past Drama Desk ceremonies while eating pizza straight from the box.
"You're going to Broadway," Oakley says, stating it like a fact. "This is just the beginning."
"Maybe," I say. "Probably not. But maybe."
"Definitely," Dorian corrects. "You marked three Alphas on stage and then proved you weren't just making a statement. You proved you have the talent to back it up. That's the combination that changes the industry."
"He's right," Corvus adds. "You're becoming exactly what you said you'd be. Difficult. Loud. Transcendent."
"And yours," I say, pulling all three of them closer. "Don't forget that part."
"Never," Oakley promises.
We fall asleep on the couch eventually, empty pizza boxes and champagne bottle evidence of our modest celebration. Tomorrow I'll email Vivian about the dress code. Tomorrow Dorian will tell his theater about my nomination. Tomorrow we'll figure out how to afford whatever this next chapter costs.
But tonight, we're just four people who chose each other over safety. Who walked away from family money and elite institutions. Who decided being difficult was better than being manageable.
And we're winning.
Not in the way Eleanor Ashworth predicted we'd fail. Not by crawling back begging for help. By building something real, one choice at a time.
The Drama Desk Awards are in three weeks. I probably won't win. But I'll be there, in a dress that costs more than our monthly grocery budget, with three Alphas marked by my teeth, showing everyone what choosing yourself over expectations looks like.
Eleanor can watch from Connecticut and realize what she lost by trying to cage her son.
The industry can see what happens when you give an Omega a platform.
And I can stand on that stage—nominated, recognized, successful—and know I earned every single moment.
Not because I was manageable.
Because I refused to be.