Falling for my boyfriend's Navy brother novel Chapter 313

**Title: Wrong Person 313**

**Chapter 313**

There’s a peculiar kind of stillness that envelops the air just before the curtain rises on a performance.

It’s not exactly silence. The atmosphere is alive with the sounds of music, hushed conversations, and the gentle hum of light bulbs flickering overhead, mingling with the rustle of costume racks and the whir of hairdryers in the background.

Yet within me, a profound stillness settles.

I find myself seated before the mirror, ensconced in the delightful chaos of my own belongings. Makeup sprawls across the vanity like a painter’s palette. Bobby pins jostle for space in a chipped ceramic dish, their metallic sheen catching the light. My phone vibrates incessantly, a barrage of messages I’m too anxious to confront, each buzz a reminder of the world outside this moment.

From down the hall, I can hear Luc’s voice, rehearsing in one of the side studios. The sound of his pointe shoes striking the wooden floor resonates through the walls, accompanied by the occasional muffled expletive in French that makes me smile despite the tension. Laughter bubbles up from somewhere in the corridor, while soft sobs drift in from another direction, an unknown dancer’s vulnerability echoing my own.

The dressers finished securing my costume about twenty minutes ago, and here I am, just lingering in this space, waiting for something to happen.

My fingers tremble as they reach up to adjust the sleeve—

—

the left one. My thumb grazes the delicate embroidery near my wrist.

“For when you fly.”

A wave of calm washes over me, if only for a fleeting moment. It doesn’t erase the anxiety, but it gives me just enough steadiness to draw in a deep breath.

Suddenly, Madame Loretto bursts into the dressing room, a whirlwind of silk and intoxicating perfume, her energy palpable.

“Chérie, pourquoi n’es-tu pas en train de t’échauffer? Pourquoi es-tu assise comme si c’était un enterrement?”

I blink, momentarily taken aback. “I was—”

“No.” She waves her hand dismissively, gliding over to my side with a grace that leaves no room for argument. Her fingers deftly rearrange my hair as if its current state offends her on a personal level. “You are ready. You are brilliant. So why do you act like you are about to face execution instead of receiving applause?”

A sound escapes me, somewhere between a laugh and a wheeze. “I’m just afraid it won’t feel like enough.”

She halts, her gaze locking onto mine in the mirror’s reflection.

“Do you know what is worse than failure?” she asks, her voice dropping to a whisper. “It is never risking the moment. It is never stepping into the light.”

Her fingers tap against the embroidery on my sleeve, a familiar gesture. She knows it’s there; of course, she does. “And if he believes in you… then you are foolish not to believe in yourself.”

“I’m not afraid of the dancing,” I confess, my voice barely above a murmur. “I’m scared that this is everything I’ve ever wanted. What if it’s not what I envisioned?”

She studies me for a moment, a thoughtful expression crossing her features. “Then we will find the next dream. But not before we embrace this one.”

Exactly ten minutes later, Luc appears at the door, his hair slicked back and his posture impeccably straight. He leans against the doorway with an air of confidence, as if he owns the entire building.

“Are you breathing, or do I need to slap some sense into you?”

“I’m breathing,” I reply, a hint of sarcasm lacing my words.

He tosses a water bottle my way. “Drink.”

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