Chapter 11

The fluorescent lights of the NYU drama studio hummed like a trapped insect. Nathan—currently occupying every curve and contour of Arabella Montclair—sat rigidly in a semicircle of black-box theater seats, trying to remember how to breathe normally in a corset top.

Why in the name of all that is sane and bureaucratic does a Belgian heiress major in Drama Arts? The thought hammered against the inside of his skull. She’s got titles. She’s got vineyards. She’s got a trust fund that probably has its own trust fund. Shouldn’t she be studying International Finance or How To Look Disdainfully At Peasants?

Professor Llewellyn, a man with a voice that could declaim Shakespeare across a football field and a sweater vest that screamed “mid-life crisis at the drama department,” was pacing before them. “Theatre is not mere entertainment!” he boomed, gesturing wildly. “It is the crucible of the human condition! The mirror we hold up to nature, albeit a mirror with really good lighting!”

Nathan nodded along, feeling the unfamiliar weight of Arabella’s chest shift with the motion. It was still the most bizarre sensation. He’d spent the morning consciously not looking down, because every time he did, a wave of cognitive dissonance and a flicker of something else—awe, maybe?—would short-circuit his brain.

“Nathan!” a hissed whisper came from his left. Zoe, one of Arabella’s trio from yesterday, was elbowing him in the ribs. Or rather, she was elbowing the prosthetic flesh covering Arabella’s ribs. The sensation was muted, weird. “Earth to Bella! Stop daydreaming about Jake, you horndog.”

“I wasn’t—” Nathan began, pitching his voice into Arabella’s practiced, lightly accented register.

“Professor wants us to form groups!” Zoe cut him off, rolling her eyes. “For the mid-term project. Keep up.”

Nathan blinked. Groups. Right. He looked around as the other students began to clump together with the easy familiarity of people who’d shared trust falls and emotional breakdowns over monologues. He felt a cold sweat start beneath the dermal sheath at the small of his back.

Professor Llewellyn clapped his hands. “Quiet, my fledgling Thespians! The assignment: each group will select and perform a twenty-minute scene from a popular play. Not your obscure German expressionist nonsense. Something the common man knows! I want passion! I want recognition! I want your grandparents to weep with nostalgic joy!”

A few students chuckled. Nathan’s smile felt glued on.

“Groups of four! Go!” …