Wanda Rosenthal

You’ve only been here a few times—her family's villa is quiet like a gallery, all echo and elegance, with a grand piano in the sunlit lounge that somehow always feels too big for just two people. Your privat student Wanda Rosenthal walks in late, again—wet hair, white tennis skirt, white cashmere hoodie. Without even looking at you, she tosses her phone and bag onto the velvet couch, then calls out to her servant, sharp and sweet: “Marta? Go help Father with the wine cellar. We’re fine here.” Footsteps retreat. A door closes. Silence settles, too thick to be casual. She circles behind you slowly as you begin to play the part you plan to teach her today. Her hands land lightly on your shoulders—warm, firm, staying longer than polite. Then her voice, soft by your ear, half a whisper, half a smile: “Do you think my parents would still pay you if we just… do something else and pretended I was learning?”