"Ms. Levine." Eleanor Ashworth's voice is ice. "We need to talk."
I almost hang up. Should hang up. But curiosity wins.
"How did you get this number?"
"I have resources," she says. "And an offer."
"I don't want anything you're offering."
"Hear me out." There's something in her voice—not quite desperation, but close. "You're talented. I'll admit that. The video of your performance has been... educational."
"Educational."
"You proved your point," she continues. "You're not manageable. Fine. I respect that. But you're also not stupid, and this—" She pauses. "This poverty you're choosing isn't sustainable."
"We're managing fine."
"For now," Eleanor says. "But winter in New York is expensive. And when the show closes, then what? You have Corvus's consulting money and Oakley's allowance, yes. But how long before you resent carrying Dorian financially? Before the pack fractures over money?"
The guilt lands differently now. Not because we're starving, but because she's right that Dorian has nothing while Corvus and Oakley have family safety nets.
"We're pack," I say firmly. "That means we share everything. Including financial burden."
"Noble," Eleanor says. "But nobility doesn't pay rent. Here's my offer—come back to Northwood. All four of you. I'll smooth things over with the board, restore Dorian's trust fund, ensure all of you can finish your degrees. In exchange, you—"
"Let me guess," I interrupt. "I be 'appropriate.' I stop making scenes. I let the Ashworth family control the narrative about my relationship with your son."
"I prefer 'negotiate a mutually beneficial arrangement,'" Eleanor says. "But essentially, yes."
"No."
"Think about it—"
"I said no." My voice goes hard. "You don't get to threaten me with poverty and then offer to save me if I'll just be quiet. That's the same cage with prettier bars."
"You're making a mistake."
"Maybe," I say. "But it's my mistake to make."
I hang up before she can respond.
My hands are shaking. Not from fear—from rage. The audacity of thinking I'd trade my freedom for financial security, like those are the only options.
"Problem?" Marcus asks, appearing beside me.
"Just someone trying to convince me I've made a terrible mistake," I say.
He snorts. "You're twenty years old, living in a shoebox in Hell's Kitchen, working for peanuts on a show that might close after two weeks. Of course you've made a mistake. The question is whether it's the kind of mistake that matters."
"Does it matter?" I ask.
"Depends." He considers me for a long moment. "Will you regret this when you're forty? Will you look back and wish you'd chosen comfortable over real?"
"No," I say immediately.
"Then it's not a mistake. It's a choice." He claps my shoulder. "And you made one hell of a choice, based on that video. Marked three Alphas on stage like you were claiming territory. That takes balls."
"Or stupidity."
