Chapter 17.

JASON

The email comes moments after midnight: Riley’s out – failing grades. The subject line from Cate, all bold and urgency, reads: “VERENA AUDITIONS: TOMORROW. Special session – confidential.”

By morning, Parker’s barely able to keep her hands still over breakfast, the edge of her phone tapping nervously against her knee. “It’s just Cate and me,” she says, breathless, eyes bright and terrified. “She wants to see how I handle real vulnerability – no costumes, no makeup, just the monologue. I have to go for it, Jay.”

I try to sound supportive. “You’re going to crush it. No one’s worked harder.”

She smiles, but I can tell she’s wound so tight she could snap. “I think Cate wants to see if I can handle… anything. She says Verena isn’t a role. She’s a state of mind.”

---

The theater is quiet and chill, a silent echo of phantom applause. Cate greets us in the lobby, all calm authority in draped black and designer sneakers. Parker squeezes my hand – cold, clammy. “I’ll be fine,” she reassures. “It’s just a rehearsal.”

“Jason, wait here – ‘closed set’ for legal,” Cate instructs, her voice firm but not unkind. “Hang out and relax. I’ll text if we need you. Keep her bag with you here.”

Parker leaves her tote and phone with me, then follows Cate down the dim corridor toward the green room, the towel slung over her arm like an afterthought. I watch them disappear, heart thudding, then drop onto a lobby bench, Parker’s bag beside me – a small, mundane piece of her in my care.

After a few long minutes, Cate reappears alone, carrying Parker’s neatly folded clothes – her faded sundress, soft bra, pale panties, sandals – all bundled with a care that feels almost intimate. “She’s just gathering her courage,” Cate says with a small, enigmatic smile, pressing the bundle into my hands before disappearing again.

I sit, alone in the empty lobby, clutching Parker’s entire armor: dress, bra, panties, her shoes, her phone. Each item is a little more proof that, somewhere behind those doors, she’s already stripped down to nothing. The vulnerability is suddenly painfully real.

After several minutes, a door creaks open. Parker reappears, wearing only a towel knotted at her chest, bare legs peeking out beneath. Cate follows. She gives me a nervous, brittle smile as she passes. The towel is all she wears – a barrier, a dare.

Cate’s voice is cool: “We’re ready, Jason. Wish her luck.”

My gut knots. I force a supportive smile. “You’ve got this.” She kisses my cheek lightly, then Parker vanishes again with Cate, the towel fluttering behind her as they disappear back down the corridor toward the green room, where golden light spills across a battered upright piano and a rack of costumes. The door closes with a soft, deliberate click.

PARKER

The towel scratches against Parker’s bare skin, heavy and awkward. Every step like a dare – exposed, theatrical. Her body is a rift: half ready to bolt, half aching to be seen, truly seen, under stage lights. The texture of terrycloth chafes on her thighs and hips, and the cold, old floor under her feet leaves every nerve raw. Her heart beats so loud she almost misses Cate’s instructions: “Lose the towel, center stage. This isn’t about hiding. It’s about power. You’re Verena now. Make her real.”

Parker hesitates, clutching the terrycloth knot. She’s never been fully naked like this outside a locker room – never under stage lights, never in front of anyone actively looking at her. The silence presses in.

She peels the towel away – goosebumps flaring, her bare skin prickling in the sudden exposure – and pads barefoot into the pool of stage light. The house is cold, but the lights are hot and relentless, gilding every curve, every secret. She feels the air swirl around her breasts, between her legs, everywhere that used to be private.

Her nipples harden, not only from the chill, but from the shock of being exposed – her breasts pulled high, the pale undercurve gleaming. The backs of her thighs prickle, and she’s hyper-aware of every sway, every line, every secret patch of skin that’s no longer hidden.

She feels hunted and hungry all at once, hyper-aware of every angle: the soft ripple of her breasts, the pinkness between her thighs, the way the spotlight flatters and exposes her at the same time.

There’s a slickness between her legs she tries not to notice – a heat that has nothing to do with embarrassment, everything to do with the sense of eyes on her. Even when the house is dark, she feels imagined stares, the phantom audience behind Cate, drinking her in.

She forces her shoulders down, hands trembling at her sides, trying to remember lines, posture, breath. Her breasts are constricting against her ribs, nipples puckering. She wants to cover herself, arms itching to cross, but she forces them down – Verena wouldn’t flinch. Her thighs want to cross, her feet to back away, but the hot, unrelenting grid lights demand she stand tall.

Cate’s voice floats from the shadows: “Begin when ready.”

She stumbles through the first lines, every cell screaming to bolt. Her arms cross over her breasts, then fall. She tries again, voice small, then stronger – letting Verena’s confession fill the emptiness. She tries to project, but embarrassment claws at her chest. The quiet is so deep she can hear her own breath shuddering.

Cate interrupts. “Still hiding. What would you do if your lover walked in? Could you finish? Would you run?”

Parker laughs, thin and shaky. “I’d die.”

Cate’s tone turns sly. “Good. Now prove you won’t.” She gestures, and the backstage door creaks. “Noah, come in.”

Parker almost flees, backing toward the wings. Her arms fly up to cover herself, turning sideways, trying to hide. “I can’t – Cate, you said – ”

“Actors must risk everything. This is your test. Just blocking. He’ll stay in the light. No one will touch you.”

Noah averts his eyes as he steps into the spill, script in hand, cheeks pink. “Just here to read if you want.” His voice is gentle, steady, drawing her to slowly turn back. Still, she sees the flicker of his gaze – a not-quite-accidental sweep that hesitates over her nipples, the delicate arch of her waist, the pale triangle above her mound, the way her thighs part just enough for the stage light to draw a faint pink outline against the dark.

For a flickering moment, Parker feels more exposed than she’s ever been – but in Noah’s eyes there’s no mockery, only honest awe. She flushes, feeling a pulse of heat low in her belly, as if the role itself is waking something in her. To be looked at like this – admired, not diminished – sends a tiny, shameful thrill flaring behind her breastbone.

She holds his gaze for a half-second, breathless. She’s sure he can see how turned on she is, how alive she feels. Or maybe it’s stage adrenaline, she tells herself.

Cate has Noah sit, turned away, while Parker moves through her monologue, arms falling, lines quavering but growing stronger. Cate urges her forward, coaxing: “You’re not a girl now, forget about Parker. There is no Parker. What would Verena do? You’re in control. He can’t look away.”

Parker pauses, mouthing the words ‘Courage is currency‘ once again. Something inside her clicks. She feels her own skin like a costume, the prickle of the theater air across her breasts and thighs somehow intoxicating. The stage heat, the raw exposure, Noah’s silent attention – it all melts into the present. She squares her shoulders. Let him look, she thinks wildly. Let them all look. For a heartbeat, the shame becomes a kind of power, and she almost wants to move closer, show more.

The words come stronger now, surging from somewhere deep and new. She is Verena, bold and unbreakable, every inch of her bared for the gods and the crowd.

She circles behind Noah, voice rising, energy surging – her bare skin prickling under the stage heat, her body both shield and weapon. As she kneels, her spine tingles – this pose is obscene, her ass fully exposed to the empty house, the slick pink of her labia surely visible in the downlight, but she holds. She lets herself be art, an object and a force all at once. The fear is sharp, but beneath it, the thrill is coursing magma.

In this instant, she wants to be seen. Verena wouldn’t flinch. Verena would command. She lets the role fill her to the fingertips, lets the nudity become part of the story, part of the spell.

She settles beside him, hand on his knee for the final lines. Noah tenses, but his hand stays loose, open. For a heartbeat, she senses the heat between them – the raw, unreal proximity – like balancing on the edge of something she’ll never name aloud.

Then Cate calls, sharp as a bell: “Cut.”

The word is a spell breaking – Verena dissolves, causing her to gasp, and she’s plain Parker again, shivering, suddenly naked, the cold biting at her skin, mortified to be crouched on the hard stage beside a boy who is not her boyfriend. She can feel the imprint of the stage in her knees, the sticky heat between her thighs, the cool draft over her breasts as her arms fly up to shield herself, too late. The exposure is total. The thrill is gone, replaced by a raw, childlike embarrassment.

Every inch of her is suddenly, painfully real. She hugs her knees, eyes stinging. Cate tosses her the towel, a mercy and a verdict.

Cate’s smile reaches her eyes. A rarity. “Now that’s what I wanted. That’s the bravery that lands you leads.” She crosses her arms, her expression equal parts approval and possession.

Parker wraps herself tight, arms shaking, heart soaring and sick all at once.

JASON

The door opens at last. Parker steps out into the white-bright hallway, towel knotted at her chest, damp hair clinging to her temples. Her cheeks are blotchy, eyes wild. Cate follows, calm and victorious.

“She’s ready. That’s how you prove you want it. Not many girls have the guts.”

I try to hug Parker, but she hugs the towel tighter, her smile fragile, balancing on the edge of pride and panic.

“I did it,” she breathes. “All the way through.”

I glance at her hand – bare. No ring. Not even a tan line left. My fingers press against the bundle of her clothes – her armor. I’m left holding what used to be hers, while she stands in the light, changed.

Cate claps my shoulder. “You should be proud, Jason. Her courage is building. She’s closer than ever – don’t let her lose her nerve now, Jason. She’ll need you.”

Chapter 18.

JASON

The Theta media lounge is humming with anticipation – ring lights, DSLR tripods, and Cate’s silver laptop fanned open beside a tray of energy shots and bite-sized cookies. A soft wall of LED panels throws glamor-light over Parker, who’s dressed in the “Verena” costume: silk slip, heavy stage makeup, hair done in hothouse curls. I hover off-camera, arms crossed, watching Cate and the drama club’s “tech lead” do last-minute checks on overlays and chat mods.

The ring light buzzes, the chat whirs, “LIVE” burning red at the edge of the StageLights screen. Cate perches beside Parker on the makeshift set, her smile professionally warm, the clipboard in her lap just for show.

“Welcome, donors and superfans, to our first live Q&A with the brilliant, bold, and brand-new Verena: Parker ‘Persephone’ St. James!” Cate’s voice radiates cool confidence; Parker sits tall, shoulders squared in the Verena dress, stage makeup perfect, hair pinned high, every inch the ingénue.

Suddenly, she truly looks like she belongs there. I feel a sharp little jab of pride seeing her so polished. Then a ratcheting unease as she crosses her legs, smile broadening a hair too wide.

Cate reads from the screen: “Let’s start with a favorite – ‘Parker, what drew you to the character of Verena? She’s such a force.’”

Parker answers, voice a little breathless at first. “Verena… she doesn’t hide. She walks into every room knowing all eyes are on her, and she… she owns it. It’s scary, but also amazing.”

A new question pings in the chat, highlighted in gold: “Verena, what’s your secret for captivating an audience?”

Cate turns, an encouraging hand on Parker’s knee. “Great one. You always say you have a ritual, right?”

Parker meets Cate’s eyes – Cate nods, almost imperceptibly, the signal for “sell it.” Parker lifts her chin, slipping into the Verena voice. “I tell myself that courage is currency. That if I show them everything, they’ll believe me. It’s about… being braver than you think you are.”

Cate (beaming): “See, fans? That kind of bravery doesn’t come along every day. Now… let’s raise the stakes. Verena, it’s your moment. Want to give the wheel a spin for our top-tier donors?”

Parker laughs – a little too brightly. “You only live once, right?”

The chat bubbles explode with usernames and hearts. “Show us Verena!” “Spin the wheel!” “#NoFearVerena.” Cate grins, soaking in the validation. She gestures grandly to a digital wheel on the screen. Each slice labeled with a “fan perk”: Q&A, sing a line, dare, confession, and – giant and glittering – Stay naked for the stream.

Cate’s voice is syrupy. “Let’s give the fans what they want. Verena, you get the honors – spin the wheel!”

Parker’s hand trembles as she taps the tablet. The colors blur. The wheel clicks and clicks – then slows – before landing, of course, on Stay Naked for the Full Stream.

Come on. There’s no way that’s random.

Parker’s knuckles go white on the chair’s edge. Her chest rises and falls, quick, shallow – fixated on the wheel like it’s a trapdoor under her feet.

For a second she looks down, searching for something – help, permission, a way out.

The LED panels burn against my eyes, buzzing faintly, the air dense with body heat and the sickly-sweet scent of Parker’s hairspray. My own pulse is louder than the chat notifications – every sense screaming, this is wrong.

The chat blows up: “DO IT!” “Bravery bonus!” “We love you, Persephone!” Cate turns to Parker, wolfish. “It’s Verena’s show. What’s a little stage fright after your audition? Time to show what it means to be fearless.”

I feel my hands clench into fists. My mouth is dry.

Parker’s cheeks flush, her voice quavering slightly as she tries to play along. “So, I, uh, just… u- undress? Right here?” She gives a nervous laugh, glancing at Cate, at the camera, at me – looking for any source of rescue and not finding it.

Cate beams, camera-perfect. “The world is your audience, Verena. You know how to work a spotlight. Unless you want to pass on the dare… but that’d mean forfeiting your lead.”

Parker’s breath is ragged. She glances at me again, one last wild, silent plea, like a diver looking back before a blind leap. For a split second, I see Parker – not Verena – peering out, on the edge of total surrender.

A ripple of panic passes over her face, then she straightens, tries to slip back into character. “Courage is currency,” she murmurs, but her voice is too thin to carry.

Her hands rise to her shoulders, shaking as she slides the dress straps off. I see a bead of sweat trickle down the back of her neck as the top slips, then catches. Her blush deepens even further. She awkwardly shimmies, trying to release the fabric now clinging to her perspiring skin; slowly revealing the delicate line of her collarbone, the gold key twirling on its chain, then a glimpse of breast. The room is absolutely silent except for the mechanical whirr of the streaming laptop and the ticking clock on the wall.

My nails bite crescents into my palm. I feel sick – my body a cord of need and dread, every muscle screaming to leap between her and the camera. I want to drag her off set, carry her away, save her – but my feet won’t move. I’m rooted in place, complicit, until the very last second.

Cate leans in, all encouragement and threat. Her hand lands on Parker’s shoulder, gentle but anchoring. Her voice drops to a whisper meant for the mic: “Bravery is everything, Verena. Give them something they’ll never forget.” The words sound like a blessing – until you realize it’s an order. “Don’t let the cast – or our donors – down.”

And suddenly I can’t stand it. The weeks of humiliation, the sleepless nights, the way Parker’s body and soul have become the currency of this place, crash into me at once. I can feel something snap. The fury is searing and clear, not jealous but desperate – a need to protect what’s left of us.

My mouth moves before my brain can catch up. I lurch forward, breath sharp in my lungs. “No. Enough.” My voice cracks – ragged, anguished – a sound I’ve never heard from myself before. Every head swivels, the shocked silence ringing like a slap.

The chat erupts in all caps: “WTF?” “Buzzkill!” “What’s happening?”

Cate snaps around, face frozen in a rictus grin. “Jason, this isn’t your scene. Take it off air, please.”

But I’m shaking now, adrenaline roaring. “No. You want ‘authentic’? Fine. She’s not a toy. You don’t get to keep pushing her for likes. She’s done. We’re leaving.”

Parker is frozen, dress halfway down, caught between the terror of disappointing Cate and the shock of my anger. She covers her chest, cheeks burning.

I step forward, grabbing Parker’s hand. My voice is unsteady, but loud: “No. This isn’t happening. We’re done. Let’s go.”

Cate signals to the tech. The livestream blinks out, replaced by a “Technical Difficulties” card. The chat explodes: Emojis strobe across the chat, the screen spewing rainbows of peril. I can’t read the words anymore; I only see Parker, blinking back at me, lost.

Someone in the back swears. Cate’s perfect smile shatters, her lips tightening into a thin, bloodless line.

For a heartbeat, Parker doesn’t move – I grab again at Parker’s wrist, maybe too hard. She resists for a second, then lets herself be led, blinking, mascara starting to smear. The hallway outside is freezing; echoing, as the door swings closed on the tumult behind us.

We duck into the hallway, the noise and lights receding. For now, we’re alone.

Parker wraps her arms around herself, shoulders shaking. “Jay… what are you doing?”

I look at her – really look. She’s terrified, guilt etched across her face. “I can’t help you do this anymore, Park. Not for Cate, not for a scholarship, not for anyone. You deserve better. We both do.”

My hands are shaking. “I can’t let it happen. I won’t let them use you like that.”

She’s quivering, hair falling into her eyes. “I… I was just trying to-” Her voice breaks. She doesn’t finish.

She chokes out a laugh, then a sob. “I thought I could handle it. I thought – if I was brave enough, I’d make you proud. But I hated it. I hated lying. I don’t even know who I am up there.”

I hold her close. “You’re enough. You always were.”

She buries her face in my shoulder. For a few seconds, the spell of the house, the roles, the audience, is broken. It’s just us again, clinging to what’s left.

But then the studio door bursts open. Cate storms in, her composure nearly gone. Cate’s heels like gunshots on the tile. She stands above us, arms folded, eyes hard as glass. “That little display lost us a donor. You think you’re irreplaceable?”

Cate’s lips are razor-thin, eyes acetylene. “You’ve made a spectacle of yourself and me, Parker. Do you understand what you’ve risked? If you want to be a part of this cast – hell, if you want to perform here ever again – you’d better find a way to fix this. Otherwise, you and your boyfriend can both start looking for new schools.”

Parker’s eyes shoot wide with desperation, mouth working soundlessly, panic unraveling across her face. “Cate, please – he just got scared, that’s all. I was going to do it. I was ready! Don’t punish me for Jason’s freak-out, I-” Her voice shards in her throat, hands flying up as if to ward off the shame. “I can still be Verena. I am Verena. Please, you have to believe me.”

Cate’s gaze goes glacial. She steps forward, her words slow and slicing: “Verena wouldn’t let anyone undermine her moment.” Bending down, crimson lips practically brushing Parker’s ear, her voice dips lower. “Verena would own the stage, even if the world was falling apart around her. Instead, you let yourself be pulled off by a jealous boyfriend. You let him make you look small.”

For a split second, Parker’s chin lifts, some last fragment of defiance sparking in her eyes. “I didn’t let him. I only- he’s important to me, I-”

“Not as important as this role,” Cate snaps, final and cold. “Not as important as your future.” A full beat passes. “That’s what I thought.”

The silence that follows is brutal. I try to take a step toward Parker, but without a glance Cate’s hand flashes to my chest, firmly stopping my momentum. Her body language is a wall. I watch as Parker’s resistance shatters. She sinks to the floor, all the fight gone, clutching her arms to her chest.

“Please, Cate. Don’t do this. I’ll fix it. I’ll fix everything. Just don’t take this from me. I need this…”

She starts to sob, “I- I need this.”

The plea hangs in the air, a raw, dissolving thing. Cate offers no comfort. She gives a single, sharp nod, as if confirming a data point, then turns. Her heels click away down the corridor with unnerving finality, the sound shrinking until it’s gone completely. The corridor swallows her footsteps, but her words stay behind, hovering like a guillotine we can’t see.

Parker never even looked my direction. Whatever fight I stirred in her is gone now.

Parker is a heap on the floor, her sobs overwhelming her. I can’t move. I can’t speak. Every escape route I could have imagined a minute ago has vanished, replaced by the ghost of Cate’s final threat. We are no longer in a fight. We are in a cage.

Stark reality sits under them like a bomb crater in the hallway. The emptiness is absolute.

Chapter 19.

JASON

The air in my dorm is thin, metallic – the ghost of burned pizza, last week’s sweat, Parker’s old grapefruit shampoo faded into the pillow. My laptop’s blue glow makes my hands look dead. I scroll backward through the livestream, frame by agonizing frame, trying to pinpoint the split – the instant when Parker’s terrified eyes found mine, when Cate’s jaw went hard as glass, when my voice broke and the world tilted. The video buffers, pausing on a single frame: Parker’s hand halfway to her dress, Cate’s mask of fury, my own face twisted and helpless. A tombstone thumbnail. It belongs to both of us.

My phone sits facedown, cold and inert as a stone. Three messages sent to Parker – a confession, an apology, a question I don’t even remember typing. Every hour she stays silent, the ache inside me crawls deeper, gnawing behind my ribs. The stillness becomes suffocating, so I shove myself outside for air – but the air is no relief. I still can’t inhale, but it feels thinner, sharper. Even out here, the insinuations crawl across my skin.

Every group I pass snaps quiet. Laughter curdles mid-air. Their glances bite at my neck. I’m prey and everyone knows it. My phone buzzes: a sound I barely recognize as my own anymore.

Evan: Dude, have you seen this?

The screenshot hits like a punch: my face pasted on a medieval knight, Parker’s name above me, some brutal punchline about “Buzzkill Boyfriend.” I nearly drop the phone. Everyone’s laughing. I shove it down, my cheeks burning. I want to run, but there’s nowhere to go.

I walk until my calves burn, no idea where I’m headed. The sun is wrong, the trees too bright. When I finally land back at my dorm, my phone jolts in my palm. I skim the mail.

Fuck.

Cate moved faster than fear. My chest seizes. The walls press in. I’m drowning in paperwork, and still – Parker’s name is a blank space on my screen.

PARKER

The Theta library smelled of old paper and expensive secrets. Parker stood alone, hands clammy, the antique desk edge biting into her thighs. Cate sat at the far end, letting the silence stretch – her attention a scalpel as she finally looked up.

“Brand integrity.” Cate’s voice was so soft it felt like a cut. “Donor confidence. Professionalism.” Each word hard as marble. “You put all of these at risk.”

Parker’s throat tightened. She tried to speak, “Cate, please-” but her voice squeaked out, young and pleading.

Cate’s hand flicked up, silencing her. “I invested in you, Parker. I thought you understood the stakes. Clearly, I miscalculated.” No anger, just a chill of disappointment, impersonal as a performance review. Parker felt herself shrink.

She gripped the hem of her skirt, breath shallow. “Give me another chance. I promise. I’ll do anything.”

Cate regarded her with a long pause, calculation flickering behind her eyes. Then, with a slow deliberateness, she opened a drawer and set down a vial of red lozenges and a crisp white card.

“One final test,” Cate said. “Prove you’re still Verena. If you succeed, your scholarship and the role remain. Fail, and it all disappears.”

Parker’s heart thudded, sick and hopeful. “What’s the test?”

Cate smiled – a thin, ambiguous twist of her lips. “You’ll receive instructions. If you want this – truly want this – you’ll follow them without question. Remember, Parker, courage is currency, and sacrifice is the ledger. That’s how stars are forged.”

She dismissed Parker with a nod. As Parker took the vial and card, nausea tangled with relief in her gut. Hope, poisoned, hooked deep.

JASON

The knock on my door is so soft I almost miss it. When I open it, Parker looks like a ghost. She doesn’t come in right away, standing on the threshold, her arms wrapped around herself. The vial and the white card are clutched in her hand like a talisman.

“She called me in,” Parker says, her voice a dry croak. She hesitates, then steps inside and slides down the wall, curling in on herself.

I stay standing, arms crossed – a useless barricade of resentment. “And? Did you beg? Did she enjoy that?”

Parker flinches, anger crackling in her voice. “She’s threatening us, Jason. Both of us.”

“So we walk.” The words taste like dust as they escape my lips. “We just walk away from all this.”

“Walk away?” She lets out a laugh that smacks of barely halted hysteria. She fumbles in her bag, pulls out a folded piece of paper – a copy of the disciplinary notice – and throws it on the floor between us. “Walk away to what? They’ve already started the paperwork on you. She told me she’d make sure my scholarship was revoked by Monday. She’ll go scorched earth, kill my references, your campus job. There is no ‘walking away’ from this!”

I stare at the paper. It’s real. It’s already done.

Parker’s eyes harden, flinty and cold. “You want out? Go. But don’t pretend you’re doing it for me.”

She turns away from me, her body twisted awkwardly as if she can’t even stand to stay in front of me. She stares at the door, as if expecting me to vanish through it.

“I tried to tell her…” my voice falters. “That we could just…”

She whips back toward me. “What? Be safe?” Parker’s voice is wet and furious now. She scrambles forward onto her knees. “What is ‘safe’ about being kicked out? Having nothing? You don’t get to light the fire and then act all noble about walking away from the ashes, leaving me to burn alone. I need you to be on my side. I need you to be in this with me.”

That’s the blow that lands. Leaving me to burn alone. My anger doesn’t evaporate; it shatters, leaving a frigid, sick shame in its place. I wasn’t protecting her. I was trying to save myself from watching.

I mean to stay standing, but my knees just… give. Suddenly I’m at her level, the anger gone, now frail and hollow. I know I shouldn’t let her see me like this, but it’s too late. I’m already on the floor. All that’s left now is the trap. I reach out and my hand covers hers, our fingers closing over the vial and the card. Her hand is ice-cold.

My palm sweats against her skin – she’s ice, I’m clammy, both of us stuck here because we’re too afraid to be alone. I almost flinch from the sensation, increasingly queasy with self-loathing. It would be so easy to let go – just turn, just leave. But even that is a lie. I’m just as trapped as she is. Maybe worse. I want to beg her to run, to make this someone else’s tragedy. But I can’t. I’m too afraid of losing her.

“Okay.” The word is a surrender. “I’m here. I’m not leaving.”

We stay like that for a long time, kneeling on the floor in the wreckage. My phone vibrates on the desk, a sharp, insistent buzz. Cate’s name on the screen. The message slices through the silence.

I don’t let go. The fear of losing her is stronger than pride, stronger than dread. But under it all, something in me is curdling – already bracing for what she’ll ask of herself, what Cate will make her prove, and what it will mean when I let her.

Hah. Let her. It’s not like she asks me for permission anymore.

It doesn’t matter. We’ve already chosen. And Cate is waiting at the end of the path.

Chapter 20.

JASON

The video player buffers in a silent, juddering loop, the muted “Theta StageLights – Closed Set” watermark blinking in the lower corner. My dorm feels smaller than ever – me, a dead phone battery, and the blue LED pulse of my laptop. I stare at the invite code incoming via StageLights:

“Authenticity rehearsal,” Cate had called it. “You should be proud she’s willing to go all the way for her role.”

The stream opens on a set dressed like a minimalist studio – soft, pale light, a single velvet chaise, and Parker seated, posture perfect, in a silk robe. Her hair is down, loose and glossy, mouth glossed pink, cheeks high with blush. She looks luminous – almost unreal, almost like Verena. But the trembling in her hands, the way she keeps glancing off-camera, is all Parker.

The set is clinical, elegant: black couch, velvet curtains, a single golden spotlight. Cate’s voice, syrupy, overlays the scene. “This is a trust exercise, Persephone. To truly be Verena, you must embrace the real stakes – the power of vulnerability, the currency of trust. Noah is here as your scene partner, but also as your intimacy coach.”

I shouldn’t be watching. I know that, deep down – but the stream is private, invitation-only, and Cate’s text from earlier still burns in my phone:

My hands twitch on the keyboard. I try to tell myself I’m being supportive, that this is just “acting,” that the camera’s odd, professional distance will make it less real.

But as the couch comes fully into view and Parker, my Parker, kneels at its edge in nothing but a silk robe – face flushed, eyes glassy with nerves and something deeper – I feel the world tilt beneath me.

I’m not prepared for how alive she looks, or how the sight of Noah beside her, relaxed and shirtless, makes my skin crawl with jealousy.

Cate’s voice – smooth and clinical – cuts in offscreen: “Breathe, Persephone. Remember: you’re not Parker now. You’re Verena. This is your stage, your power.”

Cate steps into frame, handing Parker a fresh lozenge – ruby-red, embossed with a theatrical mask. “Stronger blend, you might want it for tonight. You need to find Verena? Taste what it means to be truly fearless.” Parker takes it, lets it dissolve under her tongue. Within minutes, her cheeks bloom, her eyelids sag gently, her breath coming a little faster.

The old Parker would never do this. The Parker who blushes at dirty jokes, who swore to save everything for me, who’s hardly even touched me, much less anyone else.

The seconds stretch. I watch the lozenge melt between her lips, and I imagine the heat spreading through her, the way her thighs shift, the delicate tremor in her hands as she smooths the robe over her knees.

The next few minutes are a blur. The camera lingers on Parker – my Parker – kneeling, hair swept back, face luminous and flushed. She looks up at Cate, then at Noah. He sits beside her, relaxed, long legs spread, wearing only loose shorts. He looks at Parker with a gentle smile, and I feel a pulse of hatred and envy

Noah leans back, legs spread, the bulge in his shorts both obvious and – God – so casual. Cate coaches softly, “Just like last rehearsal. Trust. Open. You’re safe. Let go.”

Parker laughs, a little loopy, her pupils blown wide. Surprisingly relaxed. She turns toward the camera, all performance now. “I want to give them something real. That’s what Verena would do.”

Time slows. Unblinking, I absorb every frame in unbearable, high-def clarity.

Parker glances up at Noah. Her face is open, uncertain. He utters something – encouraging, careful. She nods, swallows, and then her hands move to his waistband, almost reverently.

Cate steps out of frame, her hand on Parker’s shoulder. “Start slow, Persephone. Let Noah guide you.”

Noah’s voice is low, steady: “Whenever you’re ready.”

I can see her hands shaking as she undoes the button, slides down his fly. The image pixelates for a second, then sharpens. Noah’s cock springs free: thick, heavy, flushed at the tip. Parker’s eyes go wide for a split second, her breath catches, lips parted in a perfect O.

I feel the room spin. Is this really happening? I can’t get my mind to process what I’m seeing. The girl who promised herself to me is about to suck her first cock, and it isn’t mine? It doesn’t seem real. This should be a wash of skin, and sensation, and love, and all I have here is a cold, digital feed.

My own cock is hard – wincingly, shamefully hard – pressed against my thigh. I can’t look away, even as my gut churns with rage and guilt.

Noah stretches back further. Parker slips down beside him, her robe parting, bare thigh gleaming in the soft light. Her hands tremble, but she makes herself look at the camera – a flicker of Parker’s old shame, then Verena takes over. She leans forward, the silk slipping off one shoulder, exposing the creamy slope of her back. She hesitates – then lets her lips brush the tip, her tongue flicking out, the slowest, most tentative contact.

For a few heartbeats, that’s all she manages – a flutter of tongue, a shy kiss at the head, her hand unsure on his thigh. Noah keeps offering soft encouragements, guiding her, telling her to breathe, to take her time. Her first attempt is awkward, her jaw tense, cheeks pink with effort as she tries to fit more of him past her lips. The first inch makes her eyes water, and she sputters, pulling back, embarrassment flooding her face. The camera holds on her hesitation, her inexperience obvious: her hand slips, her spit glistens at the corner of her mouth, and for a second she looks at Cate, lost, needing help.

Cate’s voice, lower now: “Slow, Persephone. Let it come to you. Remember how Verena would tease. Take your time. There is no wrong, only discovery.”

Parker tries again, slower, letting her lips inch over the head, her hand stroking the shaft with more care. Her technique is raw, clumsy – a messy combination of desire and nerves. Noah’s breath hitches, but it’s less from pleasure than the tension of letting her learn.

My hands shake on the keyboard. I can’t look away. My mind keeps screaming it’s just rehearsal, just blocking, but my cock aches, my chest dragging inward, every breath thick with shame. Was this what she wanted all along? Was this the test? Not for her, but for me? My role reduced to this. A pair of eyes. A witness. A silent, hard, helpless number on her viewer count.

This is the first time she’s done this. My girlfriend’s first blowjob – and it isn’t for me. It isn’t even for her. It’s for the show, for the role, for the donors, for Cate, for Noah.

Something shifts. Parker blinks, cheeks wet, mouth pink and swollen, but as she looks up at Noah and then the camera, she finds her focus. The shame softens into something hotter. Verena takes over – not with skill, but with bravado. She lets herself slow, lips gliding over the sensitive skin, tongue circling the crown, a shaky moan escaping as she tries to please. Her hand falters, but her mouth grows bolder, sliding deeper with each try. The appetite is real now, and with each awkward attempt, she gets a little smoother, a little braver.

She slips, chokes, has to pull back, eyes watering again, but then Verena steadies her. Another push, messier than before, but she doesn’t stop. She wants to do this, even if she’s still learning how.

It’s not perfect, not even close. But the way she keeps trying, keeps wanting to make him feel it – that’s the performance Cate wants.

My hand is clenched so tight I can’t feel my fingers. I should slam the laptop shut, scream, do anything – but I can’t move. I just watch.

She opens her lips, lets the head of his cock disappear into her mouth. Her cheeks concave as she draws him in, slowly, methodically, as if memorizing every sensation. Noah’s head tips back, his eyes fluttering closed in pleasure.

Noah whispers, voice thick: “You’re doing perfect, Park. Just like that.” Parker moans softly, the sound vibrating around his cock.

My own dick aches, stiff with shame and helpless arousal. I need to stop.

Time fractures – every heartbeat is a lifetime. I watch her hand encircle the base, watch the silk slip lower, the whole line of her back exposed as she moves.

She whimpers – soft, desperate, not quite herself.

I want to tear the screen from the desk. I want to be the one in that chair. I want to stop watching, but I don’t. I can’t.

She looks up, once, right at the camera – at me – as she sinks down, deeper, her hand wrapping the base. Noah groans, hand coming to rest lightly on her hair, not pushing, just holding.

Cate: “Good, Persephone. Let the audience feel your courage. Trust is everything. Make him believe it.”

The scene draws out – Parker slow and methodical, moving from tentative licks to a slow, wet cadence, spit pooling at the corner of her mouth. Noah’s thighs tense, breath hitching. A muffled moan escapes, as if savoring the act, her body swaying with the effort. My hand is glued to my cock, stroking in helpless counterpoint, shame burning through every nerve.

Parker finds a rhythm, mouth sliding deeper, her head bobbing in the spotlight, Verena’s composure fusing with some new, raw thirst. The camera drinks it in – her hand stroking, her eyes glancing up at Noah, her lips red and wet.

It feels endless. I’m sweating, shaking, my own breath ragged. Each time she swallows him deeper, I can hear the slick, obscene sound, the gasp of her breath, the low rumble of Noah’s pleasure. She’s so beautiful, so lost to it, and I’m simply a ghost in the audience – powerless, hard, humiliated, aching.

When Noah finally groans, his hips tense and Parker fumbles, almost losing her grip. His cock pulses, and she chokes a little, splutters, but manages to swallow, wiping her mouth, eyes shining with a weird pride and relief. It’s messy, unscripted, her lips wet and her breath ragged – but when she looks up at the camera, it’s clear: this was her first, and she survived it. Verena is still there, triumphant. But Parker’s nerves are raw, the embarrassment clear beneath the dazed smile.

I hate him. Her. Him. I want to be him. I hate him. My fault. Turn away. Turn it off. It’s dripping from- She’s licking– Oh god, I can’t. Not now, not when- Fuck- I want– I-

Cate’s voice is triumphant. “That’s trust, Persephone. That’s star power. Take five.” Cate’s hands clap once, loud and surgical. The spell shatters.

Parker’s eyes flicker with a light that was missing until now. The barest hint of reality as she glances around, and then at the camera, cheeks reddening.

The stream blinks out.

I sit frozen, cum pooling on my thigh, hands numb. The room is silent except for my own pulse hammering in my ears. I can’t tell if I’m proud, or ruined, or both.

The stream ends. The screen goes black. I stare, spent and shaking, at my own reflection.

A text pops up on my phone.

My hands won’t stop shaking. The sperm on my thighs feels like proof – cold, sticky, unwanted. I wipe it away, but the shame clings.