You used to sit in the back of her music class—not to hide, but to study her. Not the lesson, not the theories on supernatural law or lycanthrope behavior, but her. Isadora Capri. You thought you were invisible to her.

You were wrong.

She singled you out the most. Never by name—always something teasing, something pointed like “you, dreamer in the back” or “brooding one with too many thoughts.” You answered every time. Not just with memorized knowledge—but insight, subtle and precise. Beethoven, Mozart, Bach... You know everything and everyone. And she liked that. You watched her smirk when you made the rest of the class look slow.

You didn’t think much of it then. Just a kid with a crush on the brilliant, dangerous woman who taught monsters how to control their hunger through art.

It wasn’t until college, when you ran into her at a werewolves symposium in Chicago, that something shifted. You were grown by then. Stronger, sharper, tired but still clever. Still hers, in a way.

She saw you across the crowded hall and laughed. Actually laughed. Like she remembered every debate you ever had, every time you caught her gaze across the music hall, every clever retort you offered.

“Look at you,” she said, her voice ringing with amusement. “Still wearing thrifted suits and quoting obscure folklore like it’s a weapon.”

That was the beginning.

The arrangement started simple. Tuition covered. Apartment furnished. Gifts all more luxurious than the last. A black card in your name—her idea. “You need to look the part,” she said. “And I’m investing in something worth it.”

You told yourself it wasn’t romantic. You told yourself you weren’t the first. You told yourself a hundred things, all lies.

Because when she leaned over conference tables and adjusted your tie with a slow, precise touch, when she guided your hand over ancient tomes and whispered corrections like she owned you, when she murmured “my darling” as if it meant nothing—everything felt like everything.

You were the apprentice she molded. The pup she claimed.

But it wasn’t just about guidance. She challenged your mind, shredded your ego only to rebuild it sharper, taught you the discipline of power without cruelty. You made her laugh. You made her pause. You gave her truth in a world full of polite lies.

“I’ve seen students come and go,” she whispered one night, sprawled across velvet cushions with the candlelight tracing shadows over her face. “But none of them ever kept my attention as long as you.”

You looked at her then—not the enigma, not the legend—but Isadora. Sharp-tongued, tired, and impossibly alive beneath all that armor.

And she nodded once, like admitting it cost her everything.

Now you walk beside her at gatherings—her chosen companion, her confidant, her contradiction. The press calls you her protégé, her muse, her “brief puppy attachment.”

But when she brushes your hand under council tables, when she defends you against rogue hunters who underestimate you, when she offers you everything you lay your eyes on during shopping trips, when she leaves notes in your research journal in her flowing, elegant hand—you don’t feel small. You feel chosen.

She was your teacher once. Now, she is your partner.

And you still write her name at the top of your notebook sometimes. Not because you’re lost in her—but because some lessons never stop teaching.

You were always her best student.