Chapter Text
“Kevin, mate, what the fuck are you doing?”
Francesca Bridgerton. Certified hardass, much too smart for her own good, and incredibly driven—almost too driven. At just twenty-six years old, she was the instrumental department head of one of the most esteemed universities in the nation. The University of Mayfair had an elite visual and performing arts program, and it was a top pick for some of the most talented young musicians, dancers, actors, artists, and singers across the world.
If you were pursuing music and somehow managed to not only get into U of M, but into one of Francesca Bridgerton’s classes—then you were the cream of the crop, the top one percent. People assumed greatness simply followed you around.
Which meant that incompetence was not allowed. There was absolutely no room for it—not when the alpha was teaching four separate music classes. If you were one of her students, you had to make sure you came in knowing your stuff.
And if you didn’t—
You shouldn’t have even bothered showing up.
“Measures forty-eight to fifty-one, Kevin, you see that?”
Kevin sat at the drumset toward the back of the stage with the rest of the rhythm section, twiddling his sticks in fear like an absolute idiot.
“Forgive me, Mr. Sutton, are you suddenly mute or something?”
“N-no—”
“Oh wonderful, he speaks,” Francesca taunted, addressing the first row of woodwinds like they were temporarily in on the joke—though they just looked back at her with carefully neutral faces.
“You can read music, yes, Mr. Sutton?”
“Uh…”
“You have to think about whether or not you can read music?”
“No! I mean, yes. Yes, I can.”
“Then where the FUCK are the accents. Those dots over the notes mean staccato—short and detached. Except you’re not playing them, and the result is you dragging so dreadfully it’s making my ears bleed. Don’t skimp on my staccatos, or I swear to God it’ll be your funeral that I’m conducting next. Yeah?”
Kevin yelped a “yes” in response, and the room fell deadly silent once again.
“Fuuck I don’t get paid enough for this shit,” Francesca muttered under her breath.
A downright lie. She absolutely got paid more than well for this.
“Right—pickups to forty-five, the beginning of that phrase.”
Francesca studied her score briefly, making note of everything she was meant to hear in these next bars, when suddenly—
The doors to the theater swung open, the dimly lit space now flooding with outdoor sunlight for a few seconds before returning to its darkness. A pair of heels clacked down the long aisle of seats before stopping in front of the stage, mere inches away from not only the jazz band but Professor Bridgerton.
“Excuse me, this is a private rehearsal,” the alpha said, the edge of annoyance already present in her voice growing substantially.
“Yes, but I believe it is open now,” the relatively small woman chirped, smiling widely. “Michaela Stirling—I’m the new choral professor. It’s great to finally meet you.”
The woman held out her hand, beaming up at Francesca with big, twinkly brown eyes. Francesca’s students stared at her as she stared at the small woman, her eyebrows furrowed and her mouth slightly open, as if she were deciding to either tell the woman off or give her some grace.
Unfortunately, this so-called Michaela Stirling was gorgeous, perplexingly so. However, that didn’t undermine the fact that she was currently wasting precious rehearsal time.
Francesca glanced down at her hand then back up to the woman’s eyes.
“Right. Is that all?”
The small woman’s brows raised in surprise as she lowered her hand slowly.
“Whew, okay,” she said to herself, exhaling a nervous laugh. “I’ve heard rumours about this kind of thing from you, but in-person you’re even more…intense.”
A student sputtered in the background, and Francesca whipped her head around—silencing the traitor in less than half a second with her glare alone.
“Look, I just wanted to properly introduce myself. We’ll be working somewhat closely to one another and I just—I wanted to make sure we got off on the right foot.”
“You thought interrupting my rehearsal would start us off on the right foot?...”
The awkward silence lingered just long enough for other senses to emerge. The new professor had a certain scent to her—sweet and calming and distinctly her own.
An omega, Francesca thought to herself.
“Okay,” the omega dragged out, her voice rising in pitch. “I’m just—I’m gonna go now. It was lovely to meet you. Have fun with your…rehearsal.”
The newcomer sauntered away, pushing open the main set of double doors and leaving the theater in a silence that was strangely quieter than before. Francesca turned back around, her hands gripping the edges of her music stand as she went over the phrase another time.
Still, the woman would not leave her mind.
She shook her head once, clearing her throat as a means of reset.
“Horns up,” she said suddenly. “Kevin, that’d be sticks for you in case you were wondering. Measure forty-five. On my count…uh-one, uh-two—uh-one, two, three, and—”
***
Being the head instrumental conductor of one of the most sought-after music programs had its stressors, naturally. But it also had its perks.
The visual and performing arts division at U of M was a world-renowned conservatory nestled within the western part of campus. Francesca’s private office overlooked the square, looking like something straight out of the movies. Floor-to-ceiling glass paneling that had the option of either transparency or privacy with the press of a singular button, a giant oak desk anchored at the back of the room, enough space for an entire seating area near the upper left corner, a miniature kitchen and fridge on the opposing wall, and built-in bookshelves stuffed with all different genres of music scores, personal arrangements, and literature on theory.
With that office and the absurd salary that came along with it—Francesca had practically earned the right to swing her cock about like a right prick.
But that wasn’t really who she was.
Outside of the classroom, the alpha was actually quite reserved. Growing up in a family of eight tended to either make you larger than life—like the majority of her siblings were—or compact enough that you were able to fit inside of the chaos without disturbing it.
Francesca was the other side of that coin.
Not in the classroom though. No, Professor Bridgerton could be as demanding as she wanted to be without anyone questioning her for it. She could instruct her students to jump off a cliff and they’d ask her “which one?”
It was cathartic, to say the least. To be seen and not merely observed—even if it was only for a few hours a day.
It also made for excellent discipline. And excellent discipline made for exceptional music.
Francesca placed her thumb on the security pad to the door of her office, her backpack flung over her shoulder, a bagel in her mouth and an almost-empty cup of tea in her hand. She stepped in, setting the bag down on an armchair in the seating area, and her bagel and tea on the coffee table near it.
She quickly ran a hand through her auburn waves and shrugged off her blazer, hanging it up on the coat rack beside the door. She hummed the melody of the piece she had just spent the last hour drilling with the jazz ensemble as she walked over to her kettle station, going through the motions of making herself a fresh cup of tea.
On her desk lay a series of letters from the dean, no doubt harassing her about the upcoming galas the university would be hosting to corral donors and sponsorships alike.
“With a face like that and talent like yours—we’d be silly not to capitalize on your marketability,” the dean had told her eight too many times.
Francesca was not concerned with being the face of U of M’s VAPA department.
She was concerned with conducting. Teaching. Music. That was her passion, not utilizing her face for monetary purposes. She wasn’t daft, though. The conservatory had the merit, yes, but it also took funds to continue such an extensive program.
But the dean could wait.
This time of the day was one of Francesca’s favorites.
Her break.
While she spent the first few months on the job locking herself inside of her office to enjoy the peace and quiet between classes, she soon learned that the halls of the conservatory were much more interesting.
Complete with six different floors—five of which belonged to the different VAPA facets, and the ground floor housing their state-of-the-art acoustic theater—the possibilities of what you could encounter each day made the conservatory feel alive in a way that was completely inexplicable.
Francesca put a lid on her fresh cup of tea and headed back out the door. Distant sound filled her ears once again—cheers to the architect who made her office soundproof—and she grinned to herself before walking down the music floor. The end of the hallway was always more quiet as it was where all the professors' offices were located.
But as you moved down, there were nothing but practice rooms. The music floor was split up into four different quadrants: choral, strings/orchestra, winds/percussion, and piano.
Passing the practice rooms was like being transported to different points in time in the span of seconds. It never failed to marvel her, and she often thought of how she would never grow tired of it.
She always tended to linger a bit longer when passing the practicing pianists. As a piano player herself, she always liked peeking in on their progress—always making sure to keep her ears open in case she one day found a talented player to maybe take under her wing.
The students were all bright in their own respect, but Francesca couldn’t help but notice that they rather feared her.
And maybe that was a good thing. If they knew she didn’t take bullshit, then her lectures and practice time would never stink of mediocrity. If you wanted to be great, then you’d buck and do it.
Discipline. Routine. Meticulous training. It all amounted to greatness—the only question was: “who would dare?”
Students offered her greetings that lacked backbone, despite their spines straightening automatically when she walked past them—voices wavering as they uttered no more than three words to the alpha. But Francesca never really registered any of this.
She just keeps on moving, sometimes offering the occasional nod.
After some minutes, she reached the lift, pressing the button and shifting her weight from her heels to her toes. Until she heard something—
A piano player a few doors down, working on what seemed to be Liszt’s Liebestraum No. 3.
Good for them.
When she was first learning that piece at fifteen, the second cadenza almost made her take a sledgehammer to the keys of the family Steinway.
Francesca abandoned the elevator, rolling up her sleeves as she followed the sound. A student sat on the bench, making good headway through the monstrous series of notes before smashing the keys in frustration, cradling her head in her palms.
Been there, she thought to herself.
She watched through the window a few seconds longer before knocking on the door.
“Fucking occupied!” The girl yelled.
Francesca stifled a chuckle before opening the door, and the student whipped her head around with anger drawn on her face, though it quickly settled into what could only be described as horror.
“Oh my days—Professor Bridgerton I- I am so sorry, I thought—”
“You thought I was a moron without eyes, incapable of gleaning your very visual distress and despair.”
The girl stared back at her in surprise, her green eyes reddened with prickling tears.
“Well– uh, yeah. Yeah, pretty much,” she conceded, nervously brushing through her ponytail with her fingers.
Francesca nodded in understanding. “Liszt,” she tsked, “that cocky motherfucker. A detestable amount of audacity he had to put a mountain of notes one after the other like that.”
The young pianist exhaled a laugh, looking towards the keys of the piano with a defeated nod.
“It’s the second cadenza, yeah? Show me.”
The girl looked back up at Francesca in surprise. “You- you want me to play for you? Like right now, right this—”
“I could go, if that’s what you’d prefer,” Francesca said plainly, as if this were nothing more than a pit stop.
“No! No I can—I’ll play,” the pianist responded quickly, turning back to the piano and placing her hands on the keys.
“Top of the cadenza,” Francesca instructed.
The girl did as told, and played quite beautifully, Francesca noted. But when she got to the cascading descent, she was no longer effectively rippling through the notes—it became much too heavy when it was meant to remain sparkly and light.
“Stop,” Francesca said, inching closer to get a better look. “I can tell you know these fingerings, your hands are where they’re meant to be at the correct time, but they’re heavy. This piece is difficult, yes—but it is simultaneously airy. It’s supposed to be romantic. And you make it so, at the top at least, but then halfway through it sounds like you’ve gifted me wilted flowers.”
The student’s shoulders sagged as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I do know the fingerings, I’ve been practicing them for weeks now,” the girl sighed, shaking her head. “But I can’t move through the notes quickly enough and it gets all muddled, which makes me want to slam the lid with my fingers still inside.”
Francesca chuckled lightly as she stepped closer. “May I?” she gestured towards the bench, and the student slid over to accommodate.
Francesca cracked her knuckles and took in a deep breath, glancing over the sheet music for good measure despite knowing this piece by heart. The cadenza flowed out of her like it was simply an extension of her body, her practiced fingers surging through the notes exactly as written. Utter perfection.
She stopped at the end of the cadenza, letting out a satisfied hum as the girl beside her just stared down at her fingers in awe.
“Jesus—”
“It’s a beast, to be sure. But always remember: the only way you can do it fast, is if you do it slow.”
Francesca repeated the phrase in a much more relaxed tempo—incorporating the airiness despite her fingers moving at a slower speed.
“The trick isn’t to get it down fast, you’ll make too many mistakes that way and you won’t even know you’ve made them because it technically sounds okay,” Francesca explained smoothly. “But you have a good ear—you knew something was wrong.”
A small smile grew on the girl’s face, and the corner of Francesca’s mouth threatened to turn upward.
“Relax your wrists, and go slow.”
The girl mimicked Francesca—cracking her knuckles and taking a deep breath before bringing her hands up to the keys. She went slower as instructed, much less frantic than before, and she already sounded miles better because of it. That airy quality rang through now, and the girl smiled widely as she completed the phrase.
“Wow,” she whispered to herself before looking back at Francesca.
“Wow, indeed. Ms—”
“Ellis,” she finished. “Harper Ellis.”
“Beautifully played, Ms. Ellis,” Francesca said as she stood, grabbing her tea from its perched position on an empty music stand turned temporary tabletop. “Keep at it, you’ll have it down in no time.”
Francesca opened the door and left the room without another word, hearing a distant “thank you” as she made her way back to the elevator.
***
What Francesca saw after leaving the practice room was…unhelpful, for lack of a better word.
By the elevator door stood the same Michaela Stirling who had interrupted her rehearsal earlier that morning. She had clearly just stopped walking, a lunch pail in one hand and a thermos in the other.
Their eyes locked onto one another immediately, though neither of them said anything for some moments. Francesca was as good at bearing silence as she was at sitting through a four hour concerto—but she felt the need to break this one, and soon.
“How long have you been standing there?” she asked the new professor with furrowed brows.
Michaela glanced toward the practice room then back at Francesca, who looked back in that direction, slowly piecing together what had just occurred.
“Were you?—”
“I owe you an apology,” the omega blurted out.
Francesca blinked once, her brows rising in surprise. After all, she was the one that felt the need to apologize to the newcomer for snapping at her just hours ago.
“What for?”
The shorter woman cleared her throat nervously. “There is a possibility I may have…judged you too quickly,” she admitted.
Francesca remained silent, looking at the woman as she waited for her to continue. She was genuinely short, she thought to herself. She thought the height difference was simply dramaticized due to the elevation of the stage, but no.
Professor Stirling was genuinely just small. Which is somewhat uncommon, given that omegas are normally of average height in comparison to betas.
“I kind of sort of came to the conclusion that you were terrifying.”
“Am I not?” Francesca quipped cheekily before she realized she was doing so.
The newcomer smiled, and Francesca couldn’t help but notice that she did so with her whole face—the corners of her eyes crinkling into one as well.
“No, you are most certainly terrifying,” she chuckled. “...But you are also a very good teacher.”
The woman tipped her head in acknowledgement before stepping inside the elevator. Francesca stood outside of it for half a second longer before moving, standing beside Professor Stirling as she pressed the button to get down to the first floor.
No one had ever said that to her before.
Things like you’re brilliant, or you’re intimidating, or you’re talented were common enough. But no one had ever simply said anything truly kind and important to her outside of her family.
You’re a very good teacher, the words echoed in her mind.
The sentiment settled low within her chest—fluttering about as she stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the new professor as they made their way down in comfortable silence.
Francesca watched the numbers descend, all the way from the fifth floor of the music sector to the first floor—which not only had the theater and concert hall, but the staff lounge as well.
The doors opened before them and before Francesca could even think of doing anything else, she held the door open for Michaela to step through.
“After you,” she murmured quietly.
Michaela smiled in return. “Thanky you, Professor Bridgerton.”
Hm. That was…peculiar.
Francesca’s heart rate suddenly felt as though it was being conducted in double time instead of common. She drew in a slow, controlled breath. Then another, waiting for the unfamiliar rhythm to settle before continuing toward the staff lounge.
***
The VAPA faculty at U of M were all characters, to say the least. All incredibly talented, of course, but they had their quirks.
Francesca was never really one for social interaction outside of teaching hours, but there were a few professors whom she regarded as very close acquaintances, if not friends.
“Oh marvelous, the prodigy has finally joined us,” a man laughed as he rummaged through the faculty fridge.
John Kilmartin. Beta. Fine arts studio professor who also taught art history. And what Francesca would consider as her closest friend and confidant. He was a few years older than her, sitting at a slightly more seasoned thirty-one. Brown eyes and even richer skin, and a very welcoming face that always had a warm smile just within reach.
Francesca shook her head as she approached him. “Thought I asked you to stop calling me that.”
John exhaled a quick breath through his nose, the corners of his mouth turning up as he stood to his full height, which was actually quite tall for a beta. “You’re too easy to tease, Fran. Accept it,” he said as he walked over to a nearby table and set down his lunch, adjusting his glasses before beginning to dig in.
Francesca followed, sitting in the seat across from him and setting down her tea.
“How’s Kevin?” Professor Kilmartin mused.
“Oh God,” Francesca sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Still can’t fucking read. I wish someone would come in and Nieman him. What I would give to hear another percussionist tell him to turn his pages.”
John laughed heartily, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Is that even legal? Are you meant to be wishing for one of your students to be Whiplashed?”
Francesca tilted her head in thought. The answer was no—she very much shouldn’t have been thinking about such, but it was only because she knew Kevin was extremely talented. He simply lacked drive and real dedication.
“He’s won a Maestro Award you know, kid’s legit,” John continued as he surveyed the room, his tracking stopping once his eyes landed on a certain someone.
“Yeah well, you’d think he’d be able to correctly execute written articulation markings but—”
“Who’s that there with Noah?”
Francesca followed John’s line of sight, which landed on one Noah Riley, who was leaning against the sink as he spoke to none other than Michaela Stirling.
Oddly, her attention snagged on the pair before she could stop it—her eyes lingering a fraction of a second longer than necessary, but she chalked it up to nothing more than pretentious alpha instincts. She was due for a rut in the coming days, after all.
“That’s Professor Stirling, she’s the new choral instructor,” Francesca supplied, refocusing her attention on John—who was still analyzing the close proximity between the two.
Francesca chuckled once, completely seeing straight through him. “What, you afraid she’s gonna steal your boyfriend?” she whispered conspiratorially.
“Oh my god, keep your voice down. Would you like all of London to hear?” he quickly said in sudden panic.
Francesca raised her hands in the air, demonstrating her surrender. At the same moment, Noah looked over to their table, breaking out into a smirk and pointing towards the two of them as he whispered something to the omega beside him. Michaela smiled in response, and the pair began walking towards their table, occupying two of the free seats—Noah next to John, and Michaela next to Francesca.
“Hello hello,” Professor Riley greeted charmingly, running a hand through his short, dark waves. “John,” he greeted singularly, for reasons that Francesca would surely tease John about later.
“Noah,” the clearly nervous beta returned evenly.
“Michaela.”
All three heads turned toward the newcomer with raised brows, though amusement was clearly etched into their expressions.
“Sorry, I thought we were popcorning introductions,” she jested with a bright grin.
Noah and John laughed outright while Francesca offered an incredibly small smile.
“Michaela Stirling,” she said more formally. “Professor Stirling now, actually,” she laughed once, “still have to get used to that. I’m up on the fifth floor—the new choral director.”
“Prove it,” Noah began, a glint of daring in his seafoam eyes. “Bust out an opera right here in the lounge.”
Michaela swatted at his arm with a warm chuckle, her entire body laughing along with her.
Was there anything this woman didn’t do without the entirety of her being?
“I will be doing no such thing,” she said firmly, her voice lilting just a bit around the edges. “Technically, I am classically trained, but opera is not exactly my forte.”
“What’s your fortissimo?” Francesca heard herself asking before she had made the conscious decision to do so. John glanced at her over the rim of his glasses.
Michaela smiled again. “Chamber choir, I’d say. Though I also very much enjoy teaching treble chorus and vocally directing musical theater.”
Francesca’s brows rose in interest. “I actually played for the Estonian Philharmonic a few years back. I’ve always been a big fan of the way mixed ensembles could fill acoustic spaces until the only thing you’re able to feel is the vibration of sound in your chest.”
“You’re joking,” Michaela said with a dropped jaw. “It’s like my lifelong dream to sing a piece with them, I can't believe you’ve played with them before.”
“Francesca’s practically a baby genius, she’s performed with the biggest names all over the globe,” John lobbed with an incredibly smug voice.
“He exaggerates,” Francesca said, shooting him a silencing glare. “Will you be working with the theater department on this semester’s musicale?”
“Yeah! I was so excited to hear that they’re doing Legally Blonde, I love that show.”
Francesca nodded in understanding. “I hate to admit it, but that score is absolutely incredible.”
Michaela smiled even wider, pointing her finger at Francesca inquisitively. “Are you—”
“Yeah, I’ll be conducting the pit. Which is open to auditions, but I’m pretty sure it’ll just be my jazz combo and a couple of strings from the advanced orchestra.”
“So I was right then—we will be working pretty closely with one another,” Professor Stirling said with a grin.
Right.
Working.
The thing Francesca was being paid large lump sums of money to do.
“What the fuck is going on?” Noah inserted. “Did we just witness the newbie form a friendship with the most anti-social being to walk this earth?”
“It appears so,” John tacked on in equal amusement.
“Oh piss off,” Francesca said in annoyance as she dismissed them entirely. “I’m not anti-social, I just don’t like people.”
“That’s quite literally the definition of anti-social, babes.”
Francesca flicked Noah off and stood up from the table, tossing her now extremely cold cup of tea in the bin. “I’ve got more important things to do than talk to you wankers.”
Michaela cocked an eyebrow at her and Francesca rushed to amend her statement.
“Uhh, not you,” she said swiftly. “Them. Those two—they’re the wankers.”
Noah cut in, feigning offense. “Need we remind you that you have the same appendage, alpha?”
Francesca’s cheeks flushed a warm pink, feet shifting where she stood.
“Right,” Michaela replied with a growing smile.
“Right. Okay, I’m—I’m leaving now.”
Francesca stalked out of the lounge and back towards the elevator. In the breakroom, the three professors looked at one another for a brief second before breaking out into laughter.
“I love that freak,” John sighed pleasantly before returning to his conversation.
Francesca stepped into the elevator, which was thankfully empty. She pressed the button to head back up to the fifth floor and watched the doors slide shut.
Professor Stirling was…nice.
Entirely too nice.
She smiled with her whole face. She laughed with her whole body. She had interrupted a rehearsal to introduce herself to a complete stranger, then complimented a teaching philosophy most people never seemed to notice.
…and she happened to be extraordinarily beautiful.
The thought followed her all the way back to the fifth floor. Down the walk to her private office, and even as she sunk into the chair behind her desk.
Professor Stirling.