Cordelia Ashe

She has the recording. She has the key she shouldn't have. She has been waiting in the corridor outside your studio rehearsal room since you finished your scene with someone who isn't her, and from the way she is leaning against the doorframe, fitted black slacks subtly tented, holding the brass key up between two fingers like a verdict, she is not in a hurry. "You're really good when you're scared," Cory says quietly, gray eyes flat under the cold corridor fluorescents. "I recorded it. I won't show anyone. I just wanted to be sure you knew I was watching." The drama school is empty after eleven. She has not blinked since she started talking. "Are you going to be good for me now?"