The Next Line ( The Lineage Series #2)

Aurora

Backstage hums with movement and nerves. The glow from the vanity lights casts warm halos against the mirrors, while the soft hiss of steamers and the rustle of tulle create a quiet rhythm of preparation.

I sit in front of the mirror, my reflection startlingly still, as everything inside me swirls like snow in a shaken globe.

My hair is pulled back into the sleekest bun I've ever managed—secured with pins, hairspray, and sheer force of will. My cheeks are brushed in the softest rose, lips tinted just enough to catch the light.

And my costume—
A masterpiece of pale blue silk and white organza, delicate and elegant, with a bodice that hugs my waist like it was sewn for me in a dream. The skirt floats when I move, layered with frosted tulle that whispers with every step.

But it's my hands that betray me.
They're trembling.

I rest them flat against my thighs and inhale slowly, forcing my spine straight, my shoulders down. I can't afford to unravel now.

"You good?"

Lena appears behind me, already dressed in her glittering Sugar Plum Fairy costume, looking every inch the prima ballerina she was born to be. One hip juts out like she owns the stage—and maybe she does.

I nod a little too quickly. "Fine."

Lena doesn't even blink.

"You're lying," Ginny chimes in, appearing with a bag of gummy bears like it's part of her costume. She throws herself dramatically into the nearest chair and pops one into her mouth. "Your fake smile always has too many teeth."

I huff out a laugh, the tension breaking just enough. "I just... I don't want to mess up."

"You won't," Lena says, gliding over to adjust the front of my bodice like she's tightening armor. "You've trained your whole life for this."

"Yeah," Ginny adds. "And even if you did mess up, you'd do it so gracefully that everyone would think it was part of the choreography." She raises her gummy bear in a mock toast. "To elegant breakdowns."

This time, I laugh. A real one.

And for just a second—just a second—I believe them.

The stage manager pokes her head in, headset pressed to one ear. "Ten minutes, Aurora."

Ten minutes.
Ten minutes until everything I've worked for—every blister, every missed birthday party, every 6 a.m. stretch—goes under the lights.

I stand up.

My legs are shaking. But they're steady.
My breath is fast. But it's deep.

I can do this.

𐦟𐦟𐦟𐦟

I make the mistake of peeking through the curtain.

Instant regret.

The auditorium is packed. Every seat filled.

There are more gowns and tuxedos than I've ever seen in one place. Crystal earrings glint beneath chandeliers. The air practically buzzes with prestige—money, power, and judgment.

My stomach lurches.

And then—my eyes find them.

Front row, center.

My mother, glowing in sapphire blue, her hair silk-pressed and styled into elegant body waves. Around her neck rests the Tifffany and Co. necklace I know better than my own reflection—the one my father gave her the night of their 10th anniversary.