Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, just the plot twists.

Note to readers: Characters based entirely on the Leroux version of the Phantom of the Opera. Plot based almost entirely on my own imagination (with just one small idea borrowed from another classic work which I choose not to reveal because it would give away the ending I'm planning, which I would prefer you reach on your own; but when you get there, you'll most definitely recognize the other work if you've read it because it's also rather famous). Oh yeah--and the characters listed in the description are accurate, so don't let the beginning throw you.

As always, many thanks for reading, and enjoy!

BHC

He finished reading the paper and laid it aside, just as she reached for the jam. They both giggled amusedly as the paper got in the way of the knife and jam oozed down the back page of the advertisements. When they got over their amusement, sighing and catching their breath, she spread some jam on her croissant while he poured more coffee for them both.

They were the perfect couple: she was slender and beautiful with fair hair, sparkling blue eyes and full rosy lips; he was tall, thin but muscular with a boyish face and, when he was in her presence, a constant smile. He had dark hair which he combed back with the fingers of his right hand, and which continually fell forward to his mild annoyance and her endless delight.

"My darling" he said softly, learning forward, yearning towards her lips, and then, finding she had just taken a rather hefty bite of her croissant, kissing her hand instead. She smiled around chewing, put her hand in front of her mouth, murmured something. "What's that love?" he asked, leaning closer. She swallowed, dapped her mouth with her napkin, then leaned toward him. He wrapped his arms around her tightly and gave her one, single prolonged kiss. "I hate to leave here," he said softly.

"I hate to have you go," murmured she, placing her head on his shoulder, reaching her far arm around to touch the side of his face, play with a lock of his hair, tuck it behind his ear and then trail slowly down his shoulder and across his chest.

"But I must," he said softly, and the way he dragged out the words sounded almost like child's whine, just more mature.

She smiled at the thought of it. He had not changed much over the years. She gazed into his eyes. "Indeed you must. I will miss you my darling, but I will be right here waiting for you when you get home."

He kissed her again, tenderly and stood. "I'd best be on my way before I completely lose my force of will and stay."

"Goodbye my sweet," she said. And then, as he pushed his chair in she inquired "Hand me the paper please?"

"Of course, darling!" He lifted it, folded it into one hand, grasped his napkin with the other and in a single graceful motion whisked all the jam from the back page.

"A little jam won't hurt me," she giggled, putting the last bite of her croissant into her mouth and licking her fingers seductively.

"You stop that," he said playfully, or you won't a chance to read the paper at all!"

"All right, all right. Go then," she moaned teasingly, taking the paper from him and shaking it a little to open it. "Go on" she said from behind the paper, pretending to try to look uninterested.

"All right. I really must go. Good day my Little Lotte." He placed both hands on the top of her head, kissed her on the forehead and bounded out the door before he could change his mind again.

"Good day Raoul," Christine murmured softly to the closing door.

She turned her attention to the paper. She had plenty of time to clean up and far too many servants to help her, so needed to draw out each activity, make everything take as much time as possible in order to occupy her thoughts until he arrived home again. There was so little to do here! She read slowly, giving the journalists voices in her head, imagining them speaking each word, considering the meaning of each article, each sentence, indeed each very word, carefully. After a time, she turned the page. At last she came to the advertisements. The clock in the parlor chimed. She counted. But scarcely eleven o'clock! Oh, how could time pass so slowly? She skimmed the first two advertisements then went back. Skimming made things go so dreadfully much faster. She must avoid it, for what would she do when she finished reading this?

Many of the advertisements were not really that at all—they were, rather, personal messages from individuals to other individuals, often including cryptic language. For example, she had once read one that read:

O.G. –there is no excuse for R and M. We told them and left your memorandum-book in their hands. Kind regards.

Now, no one save those for whom this message was intended could possibly have known that R and M stood for Monsieur Richard and Monsieur Moncharmin, her two former managers when she had performed at the Opéra Garnier. Stranger still, the message was addressed to O.G.—"Opera Ghost" and referenced an amount to be paid to the ghost by the current managers. The message was from the preceding managers, and those who understood the message—Moncharmin and Richard themselves, took it to be a terrible joke. Christine smiled at her memory of the Opera Ghost. He had been her friend, though she had called him the Angel of Music instead. In reality, he was merely a man, but he had been her friend.

Well—it was true that he had been a bit more than a friend at times. Having lost her father and believed that her father sent this Angel to her, Christine looked to him as a messenger from her father, and at times, like a father himself, at least at first. He became her teacher, her tutor, her mentor. Later, she learned of his tormented past and she pitied him. She aroused his anger and came to fear him. She saw his face and came to dread him as an accursed monster. And yet, she heard his voice and felt something pulling her, drawing her nearer and nearer to him, willing her to look past his horrid appearance. Ah, yes, he had been far more than a friend, though never quite a lover. Her face was a mixture of conflicting emotions as she sat there at the breakfast table in her fiancee's large glass-enclosed dining area. She smiled at the fond memories while her eyes misted over in sorrow for the pain she'd caused him when she simply could not get past...

She blinked. She shook her head. She would never forget him. She hummed the words to a song she'd sung one night not so long ago at the Opera, "Think of Me." Strange how every word of that song perfectly detailed how she felt about him. No, it was never meant to be, she thought. But I do desperately hope he does still think of me... Well, of course he does. She smiled again. He was not the type who would forget. He was wildly passionate about everything—music, love, life, death. No, he was not the type to forget.

She caught herself staring off into space and jerked herself back to reality. Ah yes. The paper. She went back to the advertisements.

She stopped.

She felt the blood drain from her face and a cold chill seep into her spine.

She was not breathing. She dropped the paper to the table, clutched her throat wildly, forced her mind to focus on this one desperate act: breathe; live.

She gasped. She ran her hands across her face as though to push back her hair. It was a nervous habit; her hair neatly pinned up. Her hands felt cold against her face. She closed her eyes. No, I'm mistaken she thought. She looked again.

Sure enough.

Erik is dead.