Falling for my boyfriend's Navy brother novel Chapter 301

**TITLE: Wrong person 301**

**Chapter 301**

The studio is enveloped in the familiar scents of rosin dust and aged floor polish, a telltale sign that the atmosphere is charged with anticipation. Fragments of music waft through the sound system, not yet the complete score but mere snippets that dance through the air, enough to send a shiver of excitement down my spine and keep my nerves buzzing. I press my palm firmly against the barre, closing my eyes for just a fleeting moment, allowing the tremors in my stomach to settle. It’s a ritual I’ve come to rely on, a moment of stillness before the storm.

Dressed in my costume, the soft blue fabric of the rehearsal set that Asher gifted me for Christmas, I can’t help but marvel at how it fits me like a second skin. The silver threads catch the overhead lights, glinting like stars in the night sky. Each time I gaze at it, a wave of disbelief washes over me—this beautiful creation is mine, a present from him.

With a slight flutter of nerves, I glance down at the inside of my left sleeve, where the delicate embroidery resides. I’ve memorized the words etched there, but my fingers brush against the fabric anyway, a comforting ritual that reminds me of my strength.

*For when you forget you’re made of steel.*

The thought sends a warmth through my chest, tightening my throat in a way that feels heavy yet empowering, as if I’m being reminded of my own resilience.

“Penny.” Madame Loretto’s voice slices through the air, sharp and commanding like a whip. “Posture. Chin up.”

I straighten instinctively, elongating my neck and aligning my shoulders with precision. It’s become second nature now. I don’t bristle at her words; after all, she’s right. She’s always right.

Luc leans in, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. “I swear she has a sixth sense for slouching.”

I stifle a laugh, even as my ribs expand with the next breath, the air filling my lungs with a mixture of anxiety and exhilaration.

He flashes me a grin, boyish and carefree, clad in his pale rehearsal tights and rolled-down warmups. “You look ready to crush someone’s dreams.”

“I feel like I might throw up,” I admit, the truth spilling out before I can stop it.

“Perfect!” he exclaims with a brightness that is almost infectious. “That’s peak performance energy right there.”

Together, we step into the center of the studio, where the mirrors are absent today—Madame’s strict rule during dressed rehearsals. She insists we should immerse ourselves in the experience, to feel rather than fix.

And I do. I feel it in every fiber of my being—the ache in my ankles, the burn radiating through my calves, the way the bodice clings to my ribs, and the sweat that already begins to slick my spine.

This is it.

The closest I’ve ever been to grasping my dream.

The female lead in the spring gala.

Me.

Not just the girl waiting in the wings or the one laboring in the shadows of the corps. Me. Standing in the spotlight, adorned in the costume Asher gifted me, with Luc by my side, and only three weeks remaining until opening night.

As the music cues, we rise into our positions.

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify