The Next Line ( The Lineage Series #2)

Joshuan

Paris feels like breath after drowning.

The second I step off the plane, the air hits different. Crisper. Heavier. Like the city itself knows I'm here for her.

The cab ride is a blur of lights and cobblestone and old buildings that look too romantic to be real. Jamie's last text buzzes on my phone as I grip the edge of the seat.

JAMIE: Swan Lake. Théâtre du Soleil. Her name's on the board.

I look up.

And there it is.

Lit in white gold letters against black marble:

"Aurora Sinclair – Odette/Odile"

My chest tightens.

She did it.

Of course she did.

⸻

The theater is buzzing when I step inside. People in tuxedos and gowns crowd the lobby, sipping champagne and speaking softly in French. I don't belong here—not in my black jacket, my worn boots, or the sweat still clinging to me from a restless flight.

But I don't care.

I move through the crowd like a shadow, slipping past ushers and murmuring "pardon" under my breath until I find the side hallway marked "STAFF ONLY."

That's when I hit a wall.

Literally.

A broad-chested security guard steps in front of me.

"Excusez-moi, monsieur. Backstage is restricted."

"I need to see Aurora Sinclair."

He raises a brow. "And you are?"

"Joshuan. Joshuan Carvalho."

His expression doesn't change.

I try again. "She's expecting me."

"She said nothing."

"She wouldn't," I mutter. "It's... complicated."

He folds his arms. "Then you'll need to wait like everyone else."

"I flew across the ocean for her."

"That's not my problem, monsieur."

I clench my jaw, heart pounding. "Look, I'm not trying to cause a scene—"

"Then I suggest you step back."

I'm about to argue again—louder this time—when I hear a familiar voice behind me.

"Let him through."

I turn.

Lena.

Dressed in black satin, hair swept back in a clean bun, eyeliner sharp enough to cut diamonds.

"Lena?" I blink. "What are you doing here?"

She smirks softly. "Supporting my best friend one last time. I leave for London tomorrow. Royal Ballet debut."

I nod, something warm hitting my chest. "Congrats."

She shrugs. "I had a good teacher."

The guard looks between us, confused.

Lena turns to him.

"He's with me."

That's all it takes.

The guard steps aside.

No more questions.

She nods toward the hallway. "She's in Dressing Room Three. Just finished the final act. You've got about five minutes before the press swarms her."