My Student Stole My Fiancé - Chapter 11: Chapter 11

My fingers brushed away his unshed tears, lingering on his lips—a touch filled with bittersweet longing.
By the time I understood everything, it was too late.
If I had discovered the affair sooner, if I had seen through Lennon's intentions, if I had walked away from my career and come home—would things have been different?
But life doesn't give us "ifs." That word is a burden too heavy to carry.
Friends may lie. Lovers may betray. But my career never deceived me, nor did the path I chose.
There was no turning back now.
Lennon grabbed at my sleeve, his voice shaking as he pleaded with me—again and again—not to go.
This time, my resolve didn't waver. One by one, I pried his fingers loose.
I quit the orchestra. When I told the conductor, his eyes widened in disbelief. I explained I needed time abroad to heal.
He nodded, sympathy softening his expression. Then, with a sigh, he added that Lennon's reputation had been ruined by "the incident." His promotion was revoked, rumors spread like wildfire, and in the end, he resigned.
As for Mia—she was expelled. Her deliberate sabotage had earned her a criminal record and an unspoken blacklist in the industry. She'd never work in music again.
The news surprised me. I'd never intended to destroy Lennon's career.
But love doesn't wait forever.
And knowing him, I doubted he cared about the gossip.
As I turned to leave, the conductor's quiet words followed me: "That guy, Lennon… he still loves you."
Then it hit me. Because he loved me, the rumors mattered. Because he loved me, he couldn't bear the whispers.
But it was too late.
I hadn't lied to the conductor. A foreign orchestra had offered me a position—as concertmaster.
On the day of my flight, Lennon called. He'd gotten a new number after I blocked his old one.
The airport signal crackled, but his hesitant tone was unmistakable.
"Claire, I heard you're leaving today. Did you pack everything? Are you sure you didn't forget anything? Will you—"
"I'm never coming back, Lennon," I cut him off. I knew what he wanted to ask.
Lennon had never been sentimental, yet here he was, relentless in his pursuit.
Several orchestra members had subtly probed about my plans. I didn't need to ask who put them up to it.
Silence stretched between us, broken only by static.
For so long, I thought the call had dropped. Then his voice returned—slow, deliberate.
"Claire… do you hate me?"
I froze. What script was he following now?
"You must hate me," he continued. "I wasted your youth. I broke my promise to give you a happy home."
"I was cleaning the other day and realized how little time we'd actually spent together these past few years. We've been apart as much as we've been together. I used to blame you—your constant performances, your absence. But the truth is, I never tried. I never fought for you."
"I was like a child, throwing tantrums, thinking if I made enough noise, you'd turn around and see me. But by the time I realized my mistake, you were already miles ahead… and I was still standing in the same spot."
"I kept betting that you'd be too angry over Mia to let me go. But in the end, I was wrong. The one who couldn't move on… was me."
A faint rustling—as if he'd pulled the phone away—but his voice still reached me, raw and broken.
Soft, choked sobs followed.
"Lennon—"
I said his name, only to realize my own voice was just as rough.