"Your mother tells me you've been... distracted lately," Father says, not bothering with pleasantries. He never does. "Care to explain?"
"I've been focused on my academics." The lie comes easily. Too easily. "Theater isn't my only priority."
"Theater has been your only priority since you were fourteen years old." He leans back, steepling his fingers. "You've led every fall showcase since freshman year. And this year you didn't even audition. Why?"
I prepared for this question during the drive. Rehearsed the answer. "I wanted to focus on my studies. My GPA—"
"Your GPA is a 3.9. It's been a 3.9 since you started at Northwood." He cuts through my bullshit with surgical precision. "Try again."
The bonds pull, aching for pack. For Vespera. I shove the feeling down, try to shield it from reaching them. They can't feel how much this is tearing me apart.
"I'm reassessing my priorities," I say instead. "Considering whether a theater career is really what I want."
"Interesting." Father's expression doesn't change. "Because six months ago you were convinced you'd be on Broadway within five years. What changed?"
Everything. I was kidnapped by my own father. I held an Omega captive. I claimed her during her heat. I fell in love with someone who should have been disposable.
"Maturity," I say. "Perspective."
"Bullshit." The word is calm, clinical. "You're lying to me, Dorian. And you're not even doing it well." He pulls out his phone, taps something, then turns the screen toward me.
It's a photo. Me, leaving the theater building two weeks ago. And beside me, close enough to look intimate: Vespera.
My blood goes cold.
"Who is she?" Father asks.
"A classmate." Keep it casual. Keep it normal. "We have Scene Study together."
"A classmate you walk with regularly. A classmate you have lunch with. A classmate whose scent I can smell on your jacket right now even though you've been here for two hours." He sets the phone down. "Try again."
Fuck. Of course he can smell her. I've been living with her for months. Her scent is probably embedded in everything I own.
"She's part of my pack," I admit, because lying further is pointless. "Omega. I claimed her."
The silence that follows is arctic.
"You claimed an Omega," Father repeats slowly. "Without consulting your family. Without proper vetting. Without ensuring she was appropriate."
"The claiming was... biological. Fated mate bonds." I meet his eyes. "I didn't have a choice."
"There's always a choice." He stands, moves to the window overlooking the ocean. "Julian said the same thing. That he didn't have a choice. That his feelings for that boy were too strong to resist."
"This is different. This is biology—"
"Biology is not destiny." He turns back to me. "Do you know what fated mate bonds are, Dorian? In their truest form?"
"Rare genetic compatibility—"
"A genetic accident that creates obsessive attachment and makes otherwise intelligent Alphas do stupid things." His voice is ice. "The kind of stupid things that destroy families. That waste potential. That throw away everything for the illusion of perfect love."
"It's not an illusion—"
"Isn't it?" He crosses back to his desk, pulls out a file. "I had your mother do some research after those girls left earlier. Afterwe realized you weren't interested in any of them despite their obvious suitability."
He opens the file and I see her. Vespera's student ID photo. Her scholarship paperwork. Records I didn't even know existed.
"Vespera Levine," Father reads. "Scholarship student. Father is a stage manager at a community theater in Pennsylvania. Mother abandoned the family when the girl was six years old. No family money. No connections. No pedigree worth mentioning."
