My Student Stole My Fiancé - Chapter 2: Chapter 2

A flicker of panic flashed across the girl's face before she quickly schooled her features into that practiced, polished smile of hers.
"Wait—weren't you performing abroad? You weren't supposed to be back until tomorrow, Coach Claire."
Following her gaze, I realized my left hand was clenched so tightly around the violin case that my knuckles had gone bone-white.
I set the case down and flexed my fingers. "The food didn't agree with me. I cut the trip short."
Her eyes darted—just for a split second—toward the discarded underwear on the floor.
"Though I certainly didn't expect to find you in my house this early," I added, stressing my house with pointed emphasis. "And dressed so... prettily."
A nervous laugh escaped her.
Right then, the bedroom door creaked open, and Lennon stepped out, clutching a stack of papers. I jerked my chin toward the girl, my silent demand for an explanation hanging thick in the air.
Lennon leaned against the doorframe, his gaze lingering a beat too long on her exposed skin before he finally spoke. "She was just borrowing the shower."
Yeah, right.
I didn't even bother calling him out—just narrowed my eyes in a cold, silent challenge.
The room fell dead silent except for the relentless tick-tick-tick of the wall clock.
She was young. Too young to handle the tension. Finally, she cracked, her voice shaky as she stammered out excuses.
"Coach Claire, it's not what you think! I just came to pick up sheet music from Lennon, and then it started pouring, so he let me shower and—"
"Did I ask you to speak?"
My sharp interruption cut her off mid-sentence.
That, apparently, was Lennon's breaking point.
His jaw tightened as he stepped between us, shielding her like some knight in shining armor. "Claire. Enough."
He tossed the sheet music at me—Brahms' Third Symphony. "Mia came for the music. It rained. I let her clean up. What's the issue?"
A cold smirk curled my lips as I bent down, plucked her underwear off the floor between two fingers, and flung it at her.
The girl's face burned crimson. She stared at the crumpled fabric, teeth sinking into her lower lip.
"No issue at all," I said smoothly. "Though someone with basic manners wouldn't leave their underwear lying around."
That did it. Even Lennon—always so unshakably calm—looked ready to snap. His expression darkened as Mia's composure finally shattered, tears welling in her eyes.
She ducked past him, grabbing my arm with a soft, pleading whisper. "Claire—"
But Lennon yanked her back behind him, his glare so icy it stole my breath.
"Are you done?"
His voice was low, dangerous. "She's your apprentice, not some stranger. Cut the condescending act."
"If you're pissed, take it out on me. Not her."
I froze.
Since when had he ever defended her like this? He'd never hidden his indifference before. When had that changed?
Flashback
The first time I met Mia Blake was during one of my coaching sessions.
Twenty years old, sitting alone in the corner of the empty classroom, bow scraping diligently over the strings long after everyone else had left.
I'd nudged my coach, nodding toward her. "Class ended an hour ago. Why's she still here?"
He'd sighed. "That's Mia. Always stays late, always begs for extra pointers."
"No natural talent, so she overcompensates with effort."
I listened as she fumbled through Scarborough Fair, hitting a few sour notes but pouring raw emotion into every phrase.
"Technique's rough, but the feeling's there. That matters more for a performer."
My coach shot me a look—the kind that said Spare me the amateur critique.
I smirked. Of course he'd think that.
By twenty, I'd already been first chair in the city orchestra.