Forbidden Keys Under My Skirt - Chapter 1: Chapter 1
You are reading Forbidden Keys Under My Skirt, Chapter 1: Chapter 1. Read more chapters of Forbidden Keys Under My Skirt.
"This isn't working. You need to become the music—let it move through you."
The new instructor's voice cut through the quiet of the piano room, sharp and unyielding. His fingers danced effortlessly over the keys, coaxing out a melody that seemed to vibrate in the air itself.
"True artistry isn't just about hitting the right notes. It's about harmony—between your hands, the instrument, and the silence between each sound."
His touch lingered on the piano, guiding my fingers with an intensity that bordered on unsettling. I swallowed hard, my pulse racing as I tried to pull away.
But the music wouldn't let me go.
My name is Chloe Anderson, and I'm an art student with one goal: getting into a top-tier college.
Among the artsy crowd, beauty is practically a given. But even in a sea of pretty faces, I stood out—crowned the unofficial "Campus Belle" by my peers.
Too bad my piano skills didn't match my reputation.
With the final audition looming, my parents pulled out all the stops, hiring some elite instructor to whip me into shape.
After school, I hesitated outside the piano room, adjusting the strap of my backpack before knocking.
A smooth, quiet voice answered.
"Come in."
Sunlight streamed through the windows, painting the floor with shifting patterns of gold and shadow. At the grand piano sat a man in a crisp blue-striped shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal pale, elegant hands.
He looked more like a stern professor than a musician—all sharp angles and quiet intensity.
"You're letting the heat in," he said without looking up.
Flustered, I slipped off my shoes and stepped inside.
Just as I sat beside him, he stood abruptly and crossed the room to a small cabinet. When he turned back, he held a pair of soft slippers.
"Oh, thanks—" I reached for them, but he knelt in front of me instead.
His fingers closed around my ankle, warm and deliberate.
I jerked back. "I—I can put them on myself!"
He ignored me, sliding the slipper onto my foot with unsettling precision. His touch sent an odd shiver up my spine—too warm, too present for someone so detached.
Once I was seated again, he finally spoke.
"Adrian Lowell. I'll be your instructor until you're ready."
I nodded. "Nice to meet you, Professor Lowell."
He pulled out his phone, scrolling absently. "I've seen your records. Your mother wasn't exaggerating—you're bright, talented in other areas. But your piano skills?" A pause. "They need work."
My cheeks burned.
Then he pocketed his phone and fixed me with a look so intense it pinned me in place.
"One rule in my lessons."
I held my breath.
"You do exactly as I say."
The new instructor's voice cut through the quiet of the piano room, sharp and unyielding. His fingers danced effortlessly over the keys, coaxing out a melody that seemed to vibrate in the air itself.
"True artistry isn't just about hitting the right notes. It's about harmony—between your hands, the instrument, and the silence between each sound."
His touch lingered on the piano, guiding my fingers with an intensity that bordered on unsettling. I swallowed hard, my pulse racing as I tried to pull away.
But the music wouldn't let me go.
My name is Chloe Anderson, and I'm an art student with one goal: getting into a top-tier college.
Among the artsy crowd, beauty is practically a given. But even in a sea of pretty faces, I stood out—crowned the unofficial "Campus Belle" by my peers.
Too bad my piano skills didn't match my reputation.
With the final audition looming, my parents pulled out all the stops, hiring some elite instructor to whip me into shape.
After school, I hesitated outside the piano room, adjusting the strap of my backpack before knocking.
A smooth, quiet voice answered.
"Come in."
Sunlight streamed through the windows, painting the floor with shifting patterns of gold and shadow. At the grand piano sat a man in a crisp blue-striped shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal pale, elegant hands.
He looked more like a stern professor than a musician—all sharp angles and quiet intensity.
"You're letting the heat in," he said without looking up.
Flustered, I slipped off my shoes and stepped inside.
Just as I sat beside him, he stood abruptly and crossed the room to a small cabinet. When he turned back, he held a pair of soft slippers.
"Oh, thanks—" I reached for them, but he knelt in front of me instead.
His fingers closed around my ankle, warm and deliberate.
I jerked back. "I—I can put them on myself!"
He ignored me, sliding the slipper onto my foot with unsettling precision. His touch sent an odd shiver up my spine—too warm, too present for someone so detached.
Once I was seated again, he finally spoke.
"Adrian Lowell. I'll be your instructor until you're ready."
I nodded. "Nice to meet you, Professor Lowell."
He pulled out his phone, scrolling absently. "I've seen your records. Your mother wasn't exaggerating—you're bright, talented in other areas. But your piano skills?" A pause. "They need work."
My cheeks burned.
Then he pocketed his phone and fixed me with a look so intense it pinned me in place.
"One rule in my lessons."
I held my breath.
"You do exactly as I say."
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