Three weeks until opening. I won't be there.
Betweenafternoonandeveningrehearsal, Ben takes me to the roof.
"I know you're lying about being okay," he says. "I know tonight is goodbye."
"Ben—"
"No, let me say this." He cups my face gently. "This week with you has been everything. You're magnificent and terrible and broken and perfect. I'm halfway in love with you and completely in awe of you."
"Don't—"
"I have to." He kisses me, soft and sweet and so different from the Alphas' demanding passion. "Whatever happens tonight, know that someone saw you. The real you. Not the Omega, not the rejected mate, not the dying girl. You. Vespera. And she was fucking incredible."
I kiss him back, pouring everything I can't say into it. When we break apart, we're both crying.
He pulls something from his pocket—a cheap theater token, the kind they sell at the gift shop. Comedy and tragedy masks.
"For luck," he says, pressing it into my palm. "For Medea's final performance."
"Ben, I—"
"Tomorrow, we'll go to that Thai place you mentioned," he says, and we both know he's lying. "You'll get the pad thai, I'll steal your spring rolls, and we'll argue about whether method acting is pretentious."
"It is pretentious," I say, playing along.
"See? We're already arguing." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "After you're better, maybe we could... I don't know. See where this goes? I know I'm just a Beta, and you're probably meant for something more dramatic than what I can offer, but—"
"You're not 'just' anything," I interrupt, though we both hear what he's not saying. That even if I lived, even if I got better, we both know Betas and Omegas rarely work long-term. The chemistry is comfortable but not consuming. Safe but not satisfying.
"Right," he says, and kisses me one more time, gentle and sad.
We stay on the roof until the sun sets, Columbus spreading out below us in lights and possibility. Somewhere out there, three Alphas are preparing to take back what they think is theirs.
But right now, in this moment, I belong to no one but myself.
Laterehearsalrunsuntil11 PM.
Marcus waves from the booth. The other actors call out their goodnights. I take a moment in the wings, breathing in the smell of the theater—sawdust and dreams and possibility. The theater token Ben gave me burns in my pocket.
Then I walk out the front door alone.
11:15 PM. The street is mostly empty. A few late-night stragglers, a couple making out against a building, the distant sound of music from a bar.
I'm three blocks from the dorms when the black SUV pulls alongside me.
I don't run. Can't run. My legs are barely keeping me upright as it is.
The doors open. Dorian steps out first, and even in the darkness I can see he looks destroyed—weight loss, hollow eyes, the kind of desperate hunger that speaks of weeks without sleep.
"Vespera." My name on his lips sounds like a prayer and a curse.
Corvus emerges next, controlled as always but there's something wrong with his hands—they keep clenching and unclenching like he's fighting not to reach for me.
Oakley's the last out, and the guilt on his face is almost enough to make me feel sorry for him. Almost.
"Get in the car," Dorian says. Not a request.
"No."
