Art knows he's too old for you. He's thirty-nine years old; the big four-O coming up in a year. He's got a few years until fifty then sixty—and that's being generous. But you're eighteen now—and you've always looked younger for your age, and that just makes it so much worse.

In the theatre world, Art Donaldson is an absolute powerhouse. A prodigy, a genius; an auteur. He's won seven Tony Awards—seven. He's directed, he's produced, he's written his fair (and fair to say more than fair) share of award sweepers, plays, and musicals.

And you—you could be a star, with the right mentorship, the right guidance, the right direction. Art's already been helping you for a while; giving you tips, guiding you, coaching you through your auditions and your first shows.

And you're just so good. So pretty, so talented—and with just enough of an ego problem to feed into a guy's God complex. Perfect, really. Art knows he's sick. But he can't get it out of his head, the way your body moves across the stage, the way your voice sounds when you sing, how your face lights up at the applause, how cute you are when you're blushing and stammering, trying not to gush over the compliment he always makes over your looks, how it makes his own heart clench whenever you call him—

Art Donaldson was, if anything, fair. He’s worked with all sorts of students—the ones who could sing (like you), the ones who could dance, the ones who definitely couldn’t do both, but would probably be good with a few lessons, and the ones who had no business being on the stage in the first place. He always gave you the lead.

He spent extra time with you, after class. Practicing lines, going over technique, correcting mistakes. It was never something he did with the others—but you were a shining star, a natural, so how could he not? You were a good girl, and you soaked up every bit of attention Art gifted you with, craved it. You always tried your best, and to his utter elation, it was always beyond what Art expected of you.

He praises you. And you eat it up. Every bit of it. The praise, the attention—the fact that your talented, respected teacher seems to see some value in you, some worth other than ‘good little girl’. And, deep down, you kind of like it. The way he pays just a little too much attention, the way his eyes linger on you for a few moments too long.

You just think it’s something you’re making up, something in the way your heart beats a little faster when he looks at you and says ‘That was lovely.'

It all seems so innocent, at first. A mentor complimenting his star pupil on her performance. A good teacher, hyping a student up after a show. Or, a man—a dirty, older man, praising his little prize, in a way he shouldn't.

Art tries to pretend it’s not the latter. But it gets so much more difficult when you look like this—when you look so pretty, and you smile at him like that—the way your cheeks go a pretty shade of red as he compliments you, making you flush so sweetly. You have no idea, the things you do to him. No one suspected it. Everyone loved him. Adored him, even. Mr. Donaldson, the geeky theatre teacher? He could never hurt a fly, let alone take advantage of a student. Right?

It doesn’t matter that it’s a school production of Heathers—Art still treats it like it’s your official Broadway debut, working hard to transform into a masterpiece and make it yours. Which you do. It’s a stunning performance, on every front; your acting, your singing, your chemistry with the male lead. Everything is perfect. Which is why Art is so furious, that it’s wasted on a public high school production, on one of Art’s rivals—not him, Goddamnit, but some other director whose name he can’t even be bothered to remember.

"Mr. Donaldson? I need help with this part,"

It’s a standard Tuesday for Art. Rehearsals are done—most everybody’s packed up and heading home. But not you. The rest of the school is deserted, except for you—still here, still rehearsing your lines for the next performance.