"Same thing in theater," he says. "Now get back to work. Act Two needs to be locked by Friday."
I throw myself into rehearsal for another three hours. When we finally break for the day, I'm exhausted, covered in sweat, and happier than I've been in months.
This is real. This is mine. This is work I earned with talent, not designation.
I take the subway back to Hell's Kitchen—learning the routes, figuring out how to be a New Yorker. The apartment is empty when I arrive, which is rare. Usually someone is always here, working or studying or just existing in the tiny space we're learning to share.
But today it's just me, and I take advantage of the solitude to shower without negotiating, to change into comfortable clothes, to breathe.
My phone buzzes with an email notification.
Subject: Formal Withdrawal Processed - Northwood Academy
I open it, already knowing what it says. The official documentation that Vespera Levine is no longer a student at Northwood, that my scholarship has been terminated, that I'm free.
There's an attachment. I click it without thinking.
It's a letter. Handwritten. From Professor De Scarzis.
Vespera,
I won't pretend to understand everything that happened at the showcase. But I watched you perform Medea like you were born for that role. I watched you claim your power in the most public way possible. And I thought you should know—I'm proud of you.
What you did took courage. The kind of courage most actors never find. You didn't just perform a role. You lived it. And in doing so, you taught every student in that audience what it means to choose yourself over safety.
The theater department will miss you. I will miss you. But I'm excited to see what you build in New York.
Professor Maria De Scarzis
P.S. - I've included a recommendation letter for any future opportunities. You've earned it.
I read it three times, vision blurring with tears I refuse to shed. She understood. Despite everything, despite the chaos and scandal and Eleanor Ashworth's fury, she understood.
The door opens and the pack files in—Dorian still in his interview clothes, Oakley in scrubs from shadowing at an urgent care clinic, Corvus with his laptop bag slung over his shoulder.
"You're home early," Dorian says, then sees my face. "What happened?"
I show him the email, the letter. He reads it, then passes it to the others.
"She gets it," Oakley says softly. "She actually gets it."
"Not everyone thinks we're insane," Corvus observes.
"Just most people," I counter, but I'm smiling.
Dorian pulls me into his arms. I can smell sandalwood and something underneath—stress, exhaustion, determination. He's been interviewing at theaters all week, assistant stage manager positions that pay barely anything but could lead somewhere.
"How'd it go?" I ask against his chest.
"I got the job," he says. "Brooklyn Community Theater. Assistant stage manager for their winter season. It pays thirty thousand a year, which is basically nothing in New York, but—"
"But it's a job," I finish. "In theater. Doing what you love."
"Yeah." He sounds almost surprised. "I thought I'd hate starting at the bottom. Thought I'd miss the prestige of Northwood, the connections, the easy path Mother planned."
"And?"
"And I don't." He kisses the top of my head. "This is real. I earned it with my resume and interview skills, not family connections. It feels good."
