Second Chair

Tears streamed down my face when I received the results. Second chair.

In one of the most prestigious orchestras in the world — the Vienna Philharmonic. My parents were proud of me. My partner was proud of me. The emails and texts poured in, little fireworks of praise lighting up my phone screen.

But why wasn’t I proud of myself?

I sat alone in the dim rehearsal room, head hung low, watching my tear-streaked face in the polished wood of the violin - the image trembling as much as my hands were. The disappointment hollowed me out, draining my strength to hold it properly.

The door creaked open.

“Lena?” His voice was soft, careful — as if he already knew I was crying.

Daniel stepped inside, dark coat still damp from the rain. His eyes swept over me, not just seeing the tears but cataloguing them. I felt, for a moment, like he was memorising the shape of my grief.

“You did so well,” he said, kneeling beside me. “Second chair in Vienna — people would kill for that.” He smiled faintly, as if it was a private joke. “And you will be first chair eventually. I promise you that.”

The certainty in his voice was unsettling, but he’d always been so sure about my talent, though I couldn’t explain why. I wanted to believe him. Needed to.

Instead, I whispered, “I don’t think I’ll ever get there now.”

His hand covered mine, warm, steady. “Trust me,” he said. “These things have a way of… working out.”

2

I first met Daniel in a small café two streets away from the conservatory. It was the kind of place you duck into between rehearsals — quiet, dimly lit, all steamed-up windows and the smell of burnt espresso.

I had been hunched over my coffee and cake, scrawling bowing notations in the margins of my sheet music, when his shadow fell across the table.

“Beethoven’s Violin Concerto in D major,” he said quietly, as if it were a secret only he and I shared. “Adagio second movement… am I right?”

I looked up, startled. His face marked incredibly striking features almost tamed by the dim light but it was his eyes that caught me completely. They were a kind of grey, you see only in a winter morning mist, I didn’t just see them, I got lost in them. It was cool yet comforting. Our eyes locked, his didn’t dart away, they stayed fixed on me, unwavering, as if he’d been waiting for me to look up.

He was tall, with a lean build that made his dark wool coat hang neatly from his shoulders. His hair — black but threaded with early silver — was carefully groomed and kept to soften his sharp lines. His deliberate neatness reminded me of a conductor readying for a performance

“You must have good ears,” I said, to break the silence.

He smiled, the kind of smile that makes you feel you’ve been chosen for something special. It wasn’t a broad careless grin; it was measured and meticulous, like the rest of him.

“I’m a great admirer of music. Especially when it’s played by someone… exceptional.”

His voice was low, steady, and measured, with the kind of deliberate pauses that made every word chosen carefully. It was the voice of someone who expected to be listened to, but never raised to be heard.

We spoke for twenty minutes. Or maybe it was longer — I’d lost track of time. He knew so much about the Vienna Philharmonic’s upcoming audition process that I assumed he must have read the same trade articles I had. He even knew my old professor’s name, which made me laugh and ask if they’d met.

“Once or twice,” he said, with a small shrug. “Vienna’s a small world.”

When he left, I thought I’d never see him again. But the next morning, he was outside the conservatory when I arrived. And again the next week, on the same corner. Each time, the conversations stretched a little longer, until I started looking for him.

I never questioned how he always seemed to know when I’d be there.

3

The morning of the audition crept in after a night of fractured sleep, each hour awoken by my restless thoughts. Nerves left my mind tangled and my hands clammy.

I left my flat early, yearning for some quiet. The streets of Vienna still wrapped in a thick fog, the eerie calm helped me collect my thoughts. The only sound in the distance was that of a steady, mechanical clanking rhythm from the trams against the rails — like a ticking metronome, steadying me.

Daniel promised he would meet me after it was all over. He couldn’t be there to hear me play, but I told myself I’d be fine alone. This was my moment.

Inside the practice room, I set down my case, pulled out my sheet music — and froze. The first page was gone.

A hot rush of panic flooded me. Frantically, I rummaged through every compartment of my bag and violin case, checking the same spaces over and over as if willing the page to materialise. My pacing grew frantic, my breath uneven.

I called Daniel. No answer.

How could I start my audition without my opening notes? My mind looped — more questions, no solutions — until dread tightened around my throat.

I tried to focus on tuning my strings, but then a sharp twang followed. My E string snapped, recoiling with cruel precision and striking the back of my hand. The sting bloomed into a small puncture, as if the violin itself had chosen to betray me.

The door opened. Daniel stepped inside, composed as ever, a faint, knowing smile on his lips.

“You’ve been careless,” he said, producing the missing page from his coat. “Good thing I’m here to keep you together.” He helped me restring the violin with his fingers steady and deliberate.

“Thank you,” I said, attempting to find my resolve.

“Don’t let them see you falter,” he said, voice calm. “They’ll think less of you.”

The damage was already done.

On stage, my mind felt splintered, the ache in my hand turned every note into a battle. By the final bowing, I was hollow, the echo of mistakes louder than the applause.

4

The night my results were posted, my parents called from Salzburg. My mother’s voice ecstatic and almost too loud. “Second chair, Lena! I’m so proud of you!”

I told her I was happy. I tried to make it sound like I believed it too.

After I hung up, the apartment fell silent. Daniel was already there, sitting on the sofa in his usual place, as if the cushion had moulded to him. He had a habit of letting himself in — something I told myself was convenient, though I couldn’t remember giving him a key.

That night, he bought us dinner: fillet steak, red wine and a chocolate torte from my favourite patisserie — a detail he must have picked up from being so observant.

We ate together, he refilled my glass before I’d even asked. He talked about the orchestra, seating politics, how these things could change unexpectedly.

“First chair isn’t just about playing well,” he said, slicing into the torte. “Opportunities need to arise. In time, you’ll be first chair. It’s… fate.”

A brittle laugh escaped me. “Fate doesn’t feel like it’s on my side.”

He reached across the table, resting his hands over mine. “It will be,” he said. “I’ll make sure of it.”

The confidence in his voice was both comforting and strange, like a promise I hadn’t asked for—one I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted.

5

A week after the results, rehearsals began. The first time I saw Anna, our first chair, she was warming up at the front of the section, her bow slicing through the air with an authority I envied. Her posture was perfect, her intonation immaculate — I wished I was as good as her.

A silk scarf, patterned in deep crimson and silver, was knotted loosely around her neck, its edges following each stroke of her bow. It accentuated her movements and commanded the space — as if demanding the room’s attention without a word.

She noticed me watching and offered a polite smile. “Congratulations on second chair,” she said in accented English. “It’s a good place to learn.”

Learn. I told myself she meant it kindly.

That evening, Daniel picked me up outside the hall. He’d been waiting in the drizzle, coat collar turned up against the rain.

“So,” he asked as we walked, “what’s she like?”

“Who?”

“Anna. The queen at the front.”

I laughed softly. “She’s… good. Really good.”

His mouth tightened almost imperceptibly. “Good can be replaced. Great is harder to find.”

I rolled my eyes. “You don’t even know her.”

“I know people,” he said simply. “And I know you’re better.”

6

“So,” he began, “have you noticed anything about Anna?”

My brows knitted. “What do you mean?”

“Her playing,” he said slowly. “It’s flawless. But flawless is cold. Mechanical. Lacking emotion.”

I hesitated. Anna was brilliant — but maybe he was right. She didn’t smile much, connect with the music or audience.

“She has no personality. She’s not unique.”

Unsure where he was going with this, I found myself defending her. “She’s… perfect in the way she plays.”

He shook his head, a smirk tugged at his lips. “Perfection without soul is forgettable. You’re unforgettable, Lena. She’ll be replaced soon; it’ll be you in that chair.”

I wanted to believe him. But somewhere beneath the flattery was a faint discomfort, like a note played out of tune. I told myself it was nothing — just Daniel’s way of supporting me.

7

The rain hammered against the window, a relentless drumming that echoed the storm inside me.

That evening, my fingers trembled as I ran scales in the dim light of my flat. The bow felt heavier than it should be, the notes blurred at the edges. My phone buzzed — Daniel’s name flashing on the screen.

“Anna has a late rehearsal downtown tonight,” he said before I could speak. “She’s overworking herself, she looks exhausted,” he whispered, in a calm voice.

“How do you know that?” I asked, concerned.

“I had a late meeting nearby,” he replied easily. “I was passing the conservatory on the way back.”

“Just rest,” he said softly. “Focus on yourself.”

Later, the city blurred into shadows and the thundering rain masked the unanswered questions.

The call came the next morning.

Anna had fallen — stumbled down the narrow staircase of her apartment building. A terrible accident. She was unconscious, her fate uncertain.

The orchestra’s decision was swift and unyielding: I was to take first chair for the upcoming concert.

The weight of it pressed down on me like a sudden, suffocating silence. First chair. The title I had chased through years of practice, sacrifice and aching fingers.

And yet… beneath the rush of triumph, an emptiness gnawed at my heart. Was this the victory I’d dreamed of, or just a cruel replacement?

I caught my reflection in the window — a fractured image staring back, unsure if she was triumphant or trapped.

When I told Daniel, his eyes held no sorrow.

“We’re almost there, Lena.”

8

In the days leading up to the concert, Daniel offered to take some load from me. He offered — almost unrelentingly — to organise my schedule: when I should practise, what I should eat, people I should “avoid to save my focus.” He steered my life like a conductors hand — dictating every beat, even the rests.

He’d appear at the end of every rehearsal, coat in hand and an umbrella already open shielding me from the rain. At first, I told myself it was sweet, even gallant — that he cared enough to be there every day. But sometimes his presence felt… overbearing.

Still, I found myself rationalising his behaviour. He knew how much this first performance meant to me, and he’s rightly worried that I will overwork myself — like Anna did. His care was a shield, not a cage.

The night before the concert, he cooked dinner for us. Candlelight flickered sporadically casting dancing shadows against the walls, soft music humming low between us. Daniel was a romantic — almost disarmingly so. Yet, as always, our conversation would circle back to the programme order, conductor cues, the timing of my entrances — as if he memorised every beat of the concert himself.

“You’ll be magnificent,” he said, refilling my glass with a steady hand. “I told you, you’d make it here. You just had to believe in yourself—like I did.”

9

Weeks later, after a successful concert. I visited Daniel’s apartment for the first time. It was minimalist — almost bare — apart from two shelves lined with all my upcoming and old concert programmes, before I made it into the Vienna Philharmonic. I smiled, by the thought of his devotion.

While he showered, I wandered to his desk. A leather-bound notebook sat open. My name appeared in looping handwriting, scattered among rehearsal dates and venues. Some were from long before we met. I frowned, puzzled, but then laughed quietly. Maybe he’d followed my career from afar — plenty of fans did.

The water stopped.

I closed the book, putting it back where it belonged.

When Daniel came out, towelling his hair, he caught my gaze and smiled. “You’ve always been the centre of my world, Lena.”

I told myself that was romantic.

As I passed a small drawer, a folded piece of silk was half out — patterned in a way that made my stomach tighten. It felt strangely familiar, though I couldn’t place it.

Daniel noticed my hesitation. “Ah, that,” he said smoothly. “It was left behind at the last rehearsal. I thought it might belong to someone, so I kept it safe until they came back for it. Didn’t want it lost or damaged.”

I nodded, trusting him. “Of course. That makes sense.”

He smiled, kissed my forehead, and took my hand. “Everything you’ve ever done… Everything you will ever do, I’ll always be there with you.”