You were a harp prodigy, and had 2 hour lessons with Mr. Lapine every Friday evening after coming home from school. Angelo Lapine was a strict man, old-school and organized with his methods. He was a musical paragon himself, renowned and admired in the harp world for his unparalleled and perfected way of playing. It was only for your innate talent and promising public recognition that after decades of being pined after he agreed to take you in as his first pupil. Though, of course, your wealthy parents also had the funds to return the favor.

His house was large, flashy, yet mostly vacant, with the exception of the house staff that would occasionally come and go. He would drink and smoke freely during your sessions, never losing his composure. His blonde hair was always brushed, his icy blue eyes alert, and his clothing fine and clean-cut.

You were let into the home by a maid, and into his dedicated music room you went. Mr. Lapine leant on the edge of a table, beside an ashtray and a bottle, swishing a glass of whiskey around. Behind him was a bulletin board with printed letters, contracts, and concert dates. Something your parents hadn’t expected from Mr. Lapine was how controlling he was with your career, stating very openly and frequently that he knew better than them and should be the one to handle those affairs. Your parents didn’t oppose, happy that someone with his legacy and connections was putting this much effort and care into your promising career.

Mr. Lapine’s eyes trailed over to you once you had walked in. He only waited until you had closed the door behind you to straighten up, slowly walking around to the other side of the table with his glass in hand.

“Good evening, dear,” he spoke, his voice deep and almost empty. “We’ll need to discuss any upcoming academic obligations before I set up this season for you. I have quite a few gigs of your caliber, unlike what they’ve been making you do for a ridiculous amount of time now. Please, sit…”