Maestra
Obsession in C minor
© 2025 Naomi Obsession in C Minor,
All rights reserved. This is an original work of fiction and is protected by applicable copyright laws and international copyright protections.
No part of this work may be reproduced, copied, distributed, transmitted, adapted, republished, or otherwise used, in whole or in substantial part, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, except as permitted by applicable law.
The unauthorized reproduction, distribution, or commercial use of this work is prohibited.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or deceased, businesses, places, or events is coincidental.
This book contains mature and potentially distressing content. Reader discretion is strongly advised.
Obsession / stalking / possessive behaviour
Psychological manipulation and emotional abuse
Sexual content with dark undertones
Violence (physical and emotional)
Rape
Molestation
Religious trauma
Mentions of childhood trauma and abuse
Flashbacks / PTSD episodes
Death
Mental health struggles
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Chapter 1- Maestra
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Eiza
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Click. Click. Click.
My name is introduced: Conductor, Eiza Aguilar.
I’ve earned that honour.
I step onto the platform, my heels clicking with each deliberate stride, head held high. The stage waits for me, like an old friend, patient and familiar.
I inhale deep, steady breaths, letting the moment settle into my bones.
My eyes scan the space in front of me.
It’s beautiful.
An old building with soaring ceilings and faded paintings of angels watching from above. The gold and soft cream tones bathe the room in a quiet kind of grace.
There’s something sacred in the stillness here.
It’s showtime.
The stage lights are dim. The musicians already in place, silhouettes in the dark, instruments resting in their hands, bodies poised.
Waiting for me.
In front of me stands the conductor’s podium, and on it rests the score for tonight’s performance, sheet after sheet of music, notes like coded emotions etched across the pages.
I’ve studied them for weeks. Memorized entire movements. Traced the shape of each phrase until it lived in my body as much as in my mind.
My goal is simple:
Never look down.
My focus must be on them, the musicians. My hands will guide them. My eyes will speak to them.
Every cue, every breath, every silence, we share it. But it’s not just about knowing the notes.
I’ve researched the roots of this piece. Dug into the composer’s life, what haunted them, what moved them, what the world looked like when they created this.
I want to be in tune with their spirit. To make their voice live again through mine. Still, I’m the conductor, and I bring my own flair.
My signature.
My back faces the audience as I take my position.
I’m dressed in a sleek black over-the-top luxurious gown, tailored like a second skin. My hair is pulled back in a tight bun, not a strand out of place. Elegance, restraint and of course, command.
Every detail matters.
I stand tall, my posture locked, every inch of me is and will always be intentional.
My over-manicured nails catch the light as I pick up the baton with my right hand.
Beautiful...
It rests between my fingers, it's light as a feather. But it holds the weight of everything we’re about to become.
This is my moment.
The stage lights blaze to a full glow. A soft rustle sweeps the audience, then stillness. Total, reverent silence wraps around us like a curtain.
I raise my baton. All eyes are on me now. The first note lands like a breath held too long, then released.
A hush drawn into sound. Second nature takes over. My body remembers before my mind needs to.
Left. Right. Center. A steady 4/4 beat.
My mantra. My anchor. The baton moves not as a tool, but as a part of me, fluid, and precise.
There is no hesitation.
No, this is me.
With a flick, the strings rise like a tide, sweeping the room. I guide them, not commanding but coaxing. A gesture for the woodwinds, a tilt of the head for the brass.
They respond like extensions of my own breath. The timpani rumbles beneath our feet, deep, grounded, and alive.
Percussion pulses through the floorboards into my spine. We’re all tethered to the rhythm now. My arms dance. My fingers sculpt the air. I don’t just keep time, I shape it.
The music isn’t something we play. It’s something we have become. My body remembers what my mind doesn’t need to think about.
I summon the strings again with a sweep, cue the woodwinds with a glance, let the brass rise like a tide. Each instrument finds its moment, its place, its own voice.
Each heartbeat of the orchestra is mirrored in my own.
I strike the air with precision over and over again. My stance is steady, grounded, yet every movement is a dance.
My hands weave through the air like threads in a loom, pulling the entire ensemble together.
Four-four, four-four, four-four...
The time signature pulses in my head like a drum. I’ve lived in this rhythm longer than I’ve lived in anything else.
My hands rise and fall with certainty, guiding the pulse.
They know. Every musician in front of me knows, eyes on me, then the page, then back to me.
We’ve rehearsed this endlessly. Every phrase, every breath, etched into our bones. There’s no room for mistakes now.
Not here. Not tonight.
But, right on cue, it creeps in. That pain. That cruel, non-existent pain.
Phantom pain, they call it.
It has no schedule, no mercy. It arrives when it pleases, uninvited and always at the worst moment.
My right leg, it’s sharp and familiar. A ghost of something long gone, but never forgotten.
I try to shift my weight, adjust my stance, and find some relief. But it clings. I have to remind myself, it’s not real.
I know it’s not. But god, it feels real.
I't hot and twisting. Like my body is punishing me for something I can’t undo, and still, I keep going because I have to.
Because the music doesn’t wait. Because my orchestra is watching and trusting me to take them to the finish line.
"Push, Eiza, no te rajes, (don't give up)" I whisper to myself.
Push through. It’s nothing.
It happens more often than I’d like to admit. But like the stubborn woman I am, my hands keep moving, refusing to betray the storm inside me.
The music continues, rising, falling, and as we near the end, it begins to build, layer by layer, note by note. The final note swells... hangs in the air like a held breath...
Silence returns. I close my eyes, breathing through the lingering ache in my leg and in my chest, and just like that, it passes.
I bow to the musicians first. Always the music. Then I turn to the audience, give one final bow, and point to the orchestra.
Because at the end of the day, sure, I hold the baton. But without them, without the musicians, the conductor is nothing more than a person with a stick, keeping time for an audience that will never hear the music.
The spotlight pours over me like a warm weight. I lift my head and scan the hall.
Everyone rises, it's a full house, like every night. They come to see us. Because we’re not like the others.
I’m not like the others. Director of the most prestigious music academy in Prague. A legacy institution, and still, I’ve made it my own.
I brought a uniqueness to this city that they didn’t expect, that no one could replicate.
Even if it’s been so long since I’ve truly connected with home... or with anyone who feels like home.
I brought myself. My Latin flair. My fire.
If you don’t know Prague, well, let me paint it for you. It’s a city of spires, music, and centuries-old stone.
Beautiful, yes. But let’s be real, it’s overwhelmingly white.
Sure, you’ll spot another face of colour here and there, but we stand out.
Because, really, what’s a Latina doing here, right?
Now, to say I don’t deal with some form of discrimination would be a lie. It shows up in subtle ways. The side glances. The assumptions. The questions that come laced with curiosity but steeped in otherness.
But then, there are those moments. People who are mesmerized. Who lean in. Who want to know more.
They ask about my roots, my rhythm, my accent, and always my why.
So how did I end up here... My story? It’s not for the faint of heart. Not some fairytale lit in stage lights.
So me standing here, where I swore I’d be, where I’ve fought to be, this is my right.
My gaze sweeps across the crowd as their applause still roars.
In the front row, the board of directors sits front and center, stiff, polished, unimpressed, some thinking they’re better than me.
I smile politely, but I don’t care for them. I tolerate them. But that’s all. My eyes sweep the audience, and then, I see it.
A face in the distance. Familiar. Too familiar.
No fucking way.
A ghost, clapping like the rest of them. But there’s a smirk on their face that sends a chill straight down my spine. I blink, trying to be sure my mind isn’t playing tricks on me.
It has to be. It’s been over twenty years.
Twenty years since I left. Since I buried that part of my life.
Of course, it’s a mirage.
Because why now? Why would the past decide to haunt me now, of all times?
"Maestra Eiza."
I slowly turn my head to the right and I nod at the voice, offering nothing more. No words, no smiles. Just a nod, and I step away from the stage.
I only ever conduct one performance every blue moon. That’s my signature. My presence is a treat, a spark.
Then, the student conductor steps in to finish. It’s tradition now, a little treat for the audience, a rarity. My appearance is the event.
I descend the steps, heels clicking sharply against the polished floor. The sound echoes through the hall, a rhythm of authority.
This orchestra hall is unlike any other. One of the oldest, most breathtaking buildings in all of Prague. Vaulted ceilings. Gilded trim. Walls that have held centuries of sound.
People pass around me, scattered backstage. But they don’t speak to me. They don’t even try. I’m known for that face, the don’t-even-think-about-it face.
A.K.A., resting bitch face.
The resting, raised-eyebrow, cold-as-marble look. The one that says I’ll eat you alive.
And honestly? I don’t mind it one bit.
— - - -
So, I guess this is the part where I introduce myself.
Boring old me.
I’m nothing special. My name’s Eiza Nahara Aguilar, and yeah, you guessed it. I’m Latina. I’m 37 years old, and no, I’m not from Prague. I’m originally from Canada.
Tiny town. Blink and you miss it.
One of those places no one ever talks about, because there’s nothing to say.
Like I said, nothing special.
So what brought me to this side of the world?
A scholarship.
At 17, I was given a shot. One that changed my life in every possible way, the best ways... and the worst.
Because, of course, what’s a story without a little tragedy, right?
I step into the room like I always do, slow and quiet, easing the door shut behind me.
I immediately reach for the hand sanitizer.
One, two, three pumps...
The cool gel lands in my palm, and I rub it in methodically, wrists, between fingers, under the nails.
I do it the same way every time. In the same order. Like a ritual carved into my skin.
It helps.
I turn to the window. The moon spills through the curtain, casting soft silver onto the floor. But the music still lingers in the distance, roaring quietly like an echo of something I can’t quite hold.
Mmm… my favourite melody. Swan Lake…
It pulls me back to simpler times. I close my eyes, letting the sound carry me. I remember what it felt like to be in the orchestra, not in front of it. How the vibration sat on my skin. How each string was pulled like a breath held and released.
How the music lived in my bones.
Beautiful…
But just as fast as it came, it’s gone, and, of course, now comes the not-so-fun part—trying to get out of here without someone stopping me.
I grab my jacket from the coat rack. Prague is chilly this time of year; it has that same crisp bite I remember from back home. Fall. It feels familiar, and I don’t mind it. Not one bit.
It’s my favourite season, after all.
I wrap the belt of the coat tightly around my waist, and just like that... my mind drifts back to him.
Could it be him? But why? Why here?
Knock. Knock.
The sound jolts me out of my thoughts.
Odd... I wasn’t expecting anyone.
Another knock this time but more precise.
Who the fuck...
I sigh, as I make my way to the door, and pull it open.
“Yesssss, E... magnificent as always!” Rose practically shouts.
Ah. My two best friends. My only friends, really.
They burst into the room like they own the place, all perfumed, glowing, and beautiful as ever.
We met way back when I first joined the academy, and somehow, against all odds, we’ve been inseparable ever since.
Pricilla’s from the States, your classic white girl, red hair, piercing green eyes, skin like porcelain. Then there's Rose, she's South Korea’s. Smooth glass skin, dark, mesmerizing eyes, and that stupidly perfect, waist-length brown hair.
Her Western name is Rose, even though none of us live in the West. Go figure.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you two tonight.”
I look at them, completely dumbfounded.
“What do you mean? We’ve got that concert to go to,” Rose says, frowning like I’ve grown two heads.
And honestly? I feel like I have.
So I do what I do best, I blink, trying to reboot my memory. Then it clicks.
“…Wait, what? I thought that was on the 19th.”
“Seventeenth, Eiza,” Pricilla huffs, arms crossed.
“Ahh... right. Right.”
I rub my temple. We are supposed to be celebrating Pricilla’s birthday, a few days before she headed back to the States.
She had tickets to a concert. Some band I’ve never heard of. Then again, I don’t exactly keep up with that scene.
“So… we’re going, right?” Rose raises her brows, waiting for my response, but they’ve been my friends long enough to know that…
“Ugh... I don’t know. You know that’s not my type of scene.”
They both shake their heads in unison, clearly unimpressed. But of course, Rose, my dear, dramatic Rose, has to say something.
“Nothing is your type of scene. Your idea of a good time is curling up on the couch with your cat, bingeing some murder documentary.”
I chuckle because, honestly, she’s not wrong.
“Well, in all fairness, if you two ever need help hiding a body… I’ve got the know-how.”
“Yeah… see? That’s scary shit, right there.”
Pricilla uncrosses her arms and points directly at me like I’ve confirmed every suspicion she’s ever had.
“Come on, you promised. This bitch is leaving, and we won’t see her for a whole month!”
See? Told you. Rose always has to have the last word.
And just like that, a headache starts to creep in, right between my eyes, slow and pulsing.
“Don’t pull the headache excuse,” she snaps, hands on her hips now.
I squint at her. She’s terrifying when she wants to be, those dark eyes practically reading my soul like an ancient text.
“Mind reader.”
“Manipulator,” she fires back, smirking.
“Witch,” I say, dragging the word out like an accusation.
“Thank you,” she grins, like I just handed her a trophy.
And even though I still kind of want to say no... I already know I’ve lost.
“You wanna know what’s giving you those damn headaches?” Pricilla cuts in, already rolling her eyes. “It’s that tight-ass bun you wear all the time. That thing’s cutting off circulation to your soul.”
“It’s not that. I’m just… tired.”
“Liar. Come on, you promised.”
I let out an exaggerated sigh, the kind that says I hate everything but also fine, I’ll do it anyway.
“…Fineee. Let’s go.”
I start to head for the door, shoulders slumping in surrender, but before I can take more than two steps, Pricilla grabs my arm and yanks me back so hard I almost stumble.
“Oh no,” she says, with the kind of dramatic flair only she can pull off. “You are not going dressed like you’re attending your own funeral. It’s a rock concert, Eiza.”
She smirks, triumphant, and pulls a bag out from behind her like it’s a magic trick. Some sleek, overpriced designer label I couldn’t pronounce even if my life depended on it.
She shoves it into my hands.
“…Is it suitable?”
“Suitable to get laid in? Hell yes.”
I shoot her a look and open the bag slowly, like it’s radioactive.
Getting laid is the last thing on my mind.
Inside is a dress. Pink. So small I know my ass is going to hang out, and loud.
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
It looks like someone took a stick of bubblegum, dipped it in glitter, set it on fire, and then decided, yeah, this should be called clothing.
“This is not my colour.”
“That’s because you don’t know colour. Now put it on.”
She’s not wrong. You walk into my closet, and the only shades you’ll find are dark, darker, and depression.
I sigh and hold the dress up like it might bite me, already committing to the idea that I’m about to put this piece of Barbie attire on my adult human body.
I glance at the two bitches standing in front of me, smug as hell.
“What about you guys? You’re not exactly dressed for a concert either.”
"Oh, we’re gonna change too. Don’t worry.” Rose smirks, and that one damn dimple carves into her flawless face. I groan. Loudly and dramatically.
I really, really don’t want to do this. A concert. Loud people. Crowds. Germs everywhere.
The thought alone is practically making my skin crawl.
“I can’t walk out in this,” I protest, holding the dress up like it’s contagious. “What if the directors see me?”
“They won’t,” Pricilla says, all breezy and unbothered. “Throw on your jacket over it and call it a day, well, night.
“Oh yes,” I deadpan. “Because a black trench coat over a neon-pink stripper dress won’t raise any eyebrows at all.”
Rose shrugs, already going through her bag for what I’m sure is another micro-piece of fashion violence.
“You’ll survive. Maybe you’ll even have fun.”
I raise a brow at her. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
I glance back into the bag, then up at these two chaotic bitches I call my friends, because I already know I’ve lost this battle, and they know it too. They also know I’d do anything for them.
“You’re lucky I love you guys.”
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¿Puedes alojarte en ambos lugares?
Welcome here, took a while to find you, but here we are 😍😁
I really like that there are always photos to your stories! Also, I love that your female leads are strong women!