Thatnight,Iliein my childhood bedroom, staring at the ceiling.
The room is exactly as I left it when I moved to the pack house at eighteen. Trophies from prep school. Framed playbills from shows I was in. Photos of me and the pack before everything got complicated.
Before Vespera.
My phone sits on the nightstand, Vespera's last text still unanswered.
Vespera:Come home. Get away from them. We'll figure out the rest later.
Home. She called the pack house home. Like it's ours, not mine. Like she belongs there as much as I do.
But Father's words keep echoing:Biological dependency. Chemical addiction. Trauma bonding.
What if he's right? What if everything I feel is just the bonds manipulating me? What if I'm destroying my life for an illusion?
I touch my chest, feeling the ache there. Missing her. Needing her. The bonds pulling so hard it hurts.
Or is this just withdrawal? Like an addict craving their next fix?
My phone buzzes. Oakley this time.
Oakley:Whatever they're telling you, don't believe it. Come home. Talk to us. Don't make decisions while you're there alone.
He's right. I know he's right. But I can't leave until morning. Can't face my mother at breakfast if I run now. Can't prove that I'm weak the way Father thinks I am.
So I stay. In this room full of ghosts. Trying to tell the difference between love and chemical dependency.
Trying to figure out if I'm brave enough to choose her when the time comes.
Trying not to think about Julian, who made this choice and ended up erased from family history.
The bonds pulse again. Vespera, probably lying awake in the pack house, worrying about me. Feeling my distress even though I'm trying to shield it. I love you, I think toward her through the bond, even though I don't know if she can feel it. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.
Because tomorrow I'll drive back to campus and pretend everything is fine. Pretend I'm not facing an impossible choice. Pretend my father didn't just systematically destroy every certainty I had about what we are.
But tonight, alone in this room, all I can think is:
What if he's right?
What if I'm not choosing love?
What if I'm just choosing addiction?
thirty-seven
Vespera
Thecallbackroomfeelssmaller than it should.
Studio 3B is normally spacious, but with Professor De Scarzis, two assistant directors, and six nervous actors crammed inside, it's claustrophobic. I sit in one of the folding chairs along the wall, script pages damp from my sweaty palms, trying to focus on the scene I'm about to perform.
Trying not to think about this morning.
Dorian got back early—felt it through the bonds, that sudden relief of proximity after two days of separation. I rushed downstairs expecting him to be himself again, expecting everything to be okay after the phone call where he'd sounded so desperate to come home.
Instead, I found him in the kitchen, pouring coffee with mechanical precision, and when I said his name he barely looked at me.
"Morning," he said. Flat. Emotionless. Like I was a stranger.
