"It's Halloween weekend," I say. "October 31st, actually. Friday night."
"Perfect. I'll take the day off, drive up Thursday night. We can have dinner before the show."
"Dad, it's six hours—"
"I don't care if it's twelve hours. You're my daughter and you're performing in the biggest showcase of your college career. I'm coming." His tone brooks no argument. "Unless you don't want me there?"
"No, I want you there." And I realize it's true. I desperately want him there. Want him to see that I'm okay, that I'm still me, that the claiming didn't break me. "I want you there so much."
"Then it's settled." I hear the smile in his voice. "Text me the details. And Vespera? I'm bringing flowers. Big, embarrassing flowers that will make you roll your eyes."
Despite everything, I laugh. "You always do."
"Tradition, baby. Can't break tradition." He's quiet for a beat. "Are you really okay? Because if those Alphas are hurting you, if you need out, I'll drive up right now and we'll figure it out."
"I'm okay. Really." I think about the pack house, about Oakley's cookies and Corvus's statistical analyses and Dorian suffering through his family's judgment. "It's messy and complicated, but I'm okay."
"Messy and complicated I can handle. As long as you're safe."
"I'm safe."
"Good." Another breath. "I love you, Vesper. More than anything in this world."
"I love you too, Dad."
We talk for another ten minutes about nothing—his show, my classes, the weather. Normal dad-daughter stuff that makes me feel grounded. Reminds me who I was before all of this.
When we hang up, I feel steadier. Ready to face callbacks. Ready to fight for this role.
But the bond is still pulling. Still restless. And somewhere in South Carolina, Dorian is still suffering through his family's judgment.
I check my phone. Nothing from him since yesterday.
Me:You okay?
The message sits there, delivered but unread. Which means he's probably in the middle of something. Something he doesn't want us to feel through the bonds.
I try not to worry. Fail spectacularly.
Byevening,therestlessnesshas gotten worse.
I'm supposed to be rehearsing my callback material—there's a cold reading component tomorrow where we'll work through actual scenes from the play—but I can't focus. Can't sit still. The bond keeps pulling, keeps aching, like something's wrong.
"You need to eat," Oakley says, appearing in my doorway with a plate. "You've been up here for three hours."
"Not hungry."
"Liar." He sets the plate on my desk anyway. "What's wrong? And don't say nothing, because I feel the anxiety rolling off you in waves."
I close my script. "Can you feel him? Dorian? Through your bond?"
"Yeah." Oakley leans against the doorframe. "He's shielding, but it's getting harder for him to maintain. Whatever's happening, it's intense."
"Should we be there? Should we have gone with him?"
"He didn't want us there. Said it was about the auditions—about why he didn't participate this year. His mother's suspicious." He shifts uncomfortably. "But it feels like more than that."
"Everything with his family is more than it seems."
