"This program is designed to push you," she says. "To break you down and rebuild you as professional artists. Not everyone will make it through. That's by design."
Every detail gets written down, ignoring the way my hand shakes slightly. Ben notices, but doesn't comment.
"Partners will be assigned for scene study based on tomorrow's callbacks," Marcus continues. "Those cast in Medea will have additional rehearsals on top of the regular curriculum. I hope you're all prepared to give everything."
Everything. The largest mark on my neck gets touched, hidden under concealer and a strategic scarf. I've already given everything. What's a little more?
After orientation, there's a mixer in the lobby. I should network, make connections, establish myself. Instead, the wall gets leaned against, the room spinning slightly.
"You okay?" Ben appears with two water bottles, offering one. His free hand punctuates the question with concern.
"Just tired. Long drive."
He studies me with those warm brown eyes. "When's the last time you ate?"
Thinking about it takes effort. "This morning?" Maybe. Everything blurs together lately.
"Come on." He takes my elbow gently, nothing like the possessive grips I'm used to. "There's a diner around the corner. Best grilled cheese in Columbus, according to the extensive research I did on the drive here." His hands form a rectangle, framing an imaginary research document.
I should say no. Should go back to my room, rest, preserve energy for tomorrow. But he's already steering me outside, and the cool evening air helps the dizziness.
The diner is exactly what you'd expect—red vinyl booths, black and white tile, the smell of grease and coffee. Ben orders for both of us without asking, somehow knowing I need someone else to make decisions right now.
"So," he says, stealing one of my fries with exaggerated stealth, "what's your tragic backstory?"
"What makes you think I have one?"
"Every Medea has a tragic backstory." He grins, hands spreading wide. "It's like, required for the role. Plus, you've got that look."
"What look?"
"Like you're carrying ghosts."
The accuracy makes me freeze. He notices that too.
"Sorry," he says quickly, hands raised in apology. "Theater people, we're all about the oversharing. You don't have to—"
"Bad breakup," I say, which is both true and wildly inadequate. "The kind that leaves scars."
His eyes flick to my neck, where the edge of a mark might be visible despite the scarf. "Alphas?"
"How did you—"
"I'm a Beta, not blind. Plus, you smell like..." he pauses, considering, fingers pinching the air like he's trying to grasp the right word. "Like you're in withdrawal. Rejection sickness, right?"
A nod. Too tired to deny it.
"That's rough." He doesn't press for details, doesn't ask what happened. "My ex was an Alpha. Not fated or anything that intense, but when it ended, I felt like I was detoxing from a drug. Can't imagine what it's like with an actual bond."
"It's killing me," I say, the honesty surprising us both. "Literally. My body is shutting down because I refused them."
"Them?"
"Three of them. A pack."
His eyebrows shoot up. "Damn. And you walked away from that?"
"Ran, actually. Barely made it out conscious."
