Author's Note: Well, I'm back with the next chapter! A great big 'Thank You' goes to those people who reviewed the prologue, it made me ever so happy! I hope you are enjoying this story as much as I am enjoying writing it! If anyone has any questions, comments, or constructive criticism to offer me, please review!

Chapter One

If my best friends asked me when and where I met them, I wouldn't have a clue. In fact, there are very few people I would be able to remember meeting. For example, I do not remember meeting my best friend, Becky, with whom I spent three years with; sharing a flat at university. However I do remember the first time I ever actually came face to face with the milkman. I was five years old, and I ran away. I merely remember his shocked face and the sound of broken glass. Mother cleaned up the spilt milk later on.

One person I do remember meeting is my rival.

I was a rich, spoilt child, spending the day with her 'daddy'. Daddy owned a car dealership. He was tall, and proud, and beardless, and I took much pleasure in dancing from car to car, admiring the colours. And the expense. As daddy said, the more numbers, the better! A long white skirt was wrapped around my chubby seven year old legs. I remember because I enjoyed flouncing around like a dancer. It was a hot summers day, so I wore no tights. Tiny white sandals encased my size two feet.

I was just examining the bright red of a sports car, and fiddling with my chocolate curls when I spotted something the other side of the car. I bent down and looked underneath, where I was surprised to find what looked like somebody sitting and leaning against the other side. I frowned, remembering what daddy had told me about not touching the cars.

I carefully pranced around the vehicle, and was surprised to find that the culprit was a boy of my about own age. His head was hung so I couldn't see his face, as his long, scruffy blonde hair blocked him from view. What I did see, however, were his clothes. Dark jeans ripped across the knees, as well as in several other places, and a dirty shirt.

"Excuse me", I announced myself, "you're not supposed to touch the cars. It's not allowed."

The boy looked up at me, and I was struck by his pretty blue eyes. But he ignored me.

"I said you're not supposed to lean against the cars", I told him again, putting my hands on my hips and giving him my most stern glare. I'd been practicing after I'd seen mummy give the look to daddy the month before, when he'd thrown away her new copy of Vogue. I was sure I'd gotten it right this time.

I was outraged when he shrugged.

"Gabe!" A deep voice called from nearby, cutting off my scalding before I'd even begun. The boy looked away from me and in the direction of the call.

"Gabriel?" The voice called again, after which the boy stood up and brushed off his jeans quickly with his hands.

"That's my dad", he said, then he turned and walked away, leaving me alone, and stunned. Though, young as I was, I was quick to forget the whole event.

It was several weeks later before I met the mysterious 'Gabriel' again, and I remember the event just as clearly.

"Mummy!" I had called, several times, wondering through our large house. My friends often got lost when they visited here, but I had learned to tell one white wash wall apart from another as I traipsed down hallways and through different rooms.

"Mummy?" I called one final time as I entered the kitchen. I was caught by surprise when I saw somebody's back. It definitely wasn't my mother's.

"Who are you?" I questioned the back immediately. The person turned around, and I was shocked to see the boy from daddy's company. He opened his mouth to speak, but I cut him off.

"What on earth are you doing here?" 'What on earth' was an expression I'd picked up from my favourite auntie; Auntie Lizzy, several weeks before. I was happy to find an opportunity to fit it into a conversation.

"Mr…Mr Rowett said he'd teach me piano", he answered, hesitantly. The idea seemed preposterous to my seven year old self.

"Don't lie!" I cried out immediately. "Daddy only teaches me piano!"

At the time it had been true. The baby grand in the lounge was always put aside for my own use. Music ran in my father's side of the family, and he had been teaching me since I was old enough to plonk my fingers down on the keys. My mother left us to it; she had no talent in music. My father had never before taken on another student that I knew of.

"But-" the boy started. "My…my dad said that Mr Rowett would teach me too!"

I glared at him again, and put my hands on my hips. However, just before I started to yell at him once more, daddy himself entered the kitchen.

"Gabriel?" he called out, "come on into the lounge and we'll get started." I merely watched mutely as my tall father leaned down to clamp his large hand over the boy's shoulder, and lead him away. I stamped my foot in defiance as I watched, and folded my arms across my chest. As soon as they were out of my sight, I let out a huff, and made my way upstairs to my room.

I was thoroughly annoyed.

The lesson that commenced below seemed to go on forever, though it was probably more like an hour. I spent the entire time pacing around my lovely purple bedroom; randomly kicking toys out of my way as I sulked. I smirked every time I heard a wrong note, and happily praised my own playing in my head. I was definitely better than that boy. I'd already passed grade one, and was working on grade two pieces. There was no way he could play such difficult tunes.

The flattery I gave to myself consoled me for a short while, and I even considered that perhaps, after he realised exactly how bad the other boy was, that daddy might tell him not to come back again. Because, of course, he was so bad. With that thought in mind, I made my way downstairs as soon as the sounds of the piano stopped drifting up to my bedroom; and I heard the familiar 'clank' as the lid was closed.

I arrived in the hallway just in time to see the blonde boy - Gabriel - leave, and hear daddy tell him to 'come back next week.'

I retired right back to my bedroom. Thoroughly disheartened.

That night I began planning how on earth I was going to get rid of the boy who'd begun to take music lessons in my house, on my piano, with my daddy.

I was positive, at the time, that I would succeed in my plans. Because I was Tabitha Rowett, and I always got what I wanted.

Author's Note: Thanks so much for reading! Please review, it makes my day! And I'm always happy to receive constructive criticism and such! I just want to say here that the character's names aren't actually set in stone, I'm thinking of changing a couple of them, but they'll be the same for a while...though Gabriel's name will probably never change...I love the name too much, and there's a lot of stuff I can do with it, especially in this sort of fiction.