Hi there! Thanks for giving this story a chance. After lurking for years, I'm finally posting a fic of my own.

This story is a work in progress - I've written the first five chapters and will do my best to post regularly. The first chapter is heavy on exposition, bear with me! It gets angsty and plotty real soon.

If you like what you read, consider leaving a review.

Chapter One

I should begin by explaining what it is that I do for a living. That's how I met him.

He was an artist and an entrepreneur, looking for his next great project. When he found me, I was surrounded by art and by music, but had forgotten how to create it. At first, I feared him. But then, after I understood him better, he became my tutor, my friend, and my lover.

At the time we met, I was working as a fundraiser. Or, as my business card read, a development manager. Development: it's a euphemism that wealthy people are comfortable with and that doesn't frighten away prospective donors. But, in the barest sense of the truth, I raised money for a living.

For nearly two years, I fundraised for the fine arts faculty of my alma mater. University administrators set annual targets and I wrangled, cajoled, and flattered my way into meeting them. At best, not meeting a target would lead to "coaching" from an unhelpful HR rep. At worst, I'd jeopardize my ability to pay my rent.

Thanks to some creative event planning and a handful of generous arts benefactors, I'd surpassed my last year's target, raising enough to pay for renovations to a theatre buildings and to support scholarships for incoming students. My director had been pleased. I'd been relieved.

Of course, I hadn't set out to become a fundraiser. Almost no one does. It's not a career path commonly advertised to grade-school children.

Five years ago, I graduated with a bachelor's degree in finance and a minor in music theory. While finance had been a fail-safe, music was my true passion and I'd filled my elective slate with courses in theory and vocal performance. My professors had challenged me, helping me to broaden my range and increase my repertoire. Professor Firmin, the department head, persuaded me to apply for the master's program. And, like many finishing undergraduates, I'd been eager to postpone entry into "the real world".

My master's degree took almost two years to complete. I joined the university's opera corps and musical society. Between a demanding stage schedule and part-time work in the registrar's office, my coursework and thesis had been an after-thought.

After convocation, I worked for the national opera company in a dual role: part chorus member and part patron liaison. Through my second role, I'd met Karen, development director in the university's College of Fine Arts, and she'd invited me to apply for a fundraising position at the university I'd twice graduated from.

In the beginning, I'd excelled in my new role. My work with the opera company netted a contact base of philanthropists and well-connected artists. Even during the height of the recession, I'd exceeded targets.

This year, though, reliable donors had cancelled meetings and new prospects were harder to find. Philanthropists, it seemed, were holding back their giving or turning to shinier interests. There were four months left in the fiscal year and I had yet to raise half of my goal. Colleagues kept telling me that this was normal, that giving increased over the holiday season, that I would reach my target. Still, I harbored the suspicion that perhaps I'd made a mistake in leaving the opera company.

Falling short might have been easier if I'd cared less. Still a fresh graduate, I carried a deep attachment to the students and professors in the fine arts faculty. I couldn't –wouldn't – let my department down.

And, more practically, I worried for the health of my new career. If I didn't meet the development office's goals, I risked losing my job with the university and being shunned from similar positions elsewhere. With no parents alive to support me, I'd incurred tens of thousands of dollars' worth of student loans. Now, into the latter half of my twenties, I had new responsibilities: a down payment to save for and a wedding to plan.

Failure, as the movies say, wasn't an option.

I needed to meet new people and attract new money to the university. In the snatches of time I had between meetings and paper shuffling, I worked with my director to plan a gala evening that would showcase the most promising talent in the fine arts faculty and - I hoped - attract new donors.

Karen and I had planned a roving artistic feast. Guests would be escorted between the stone and brick buildings on the university campus, sampling courses from a catered menu and enjoying an evening of theatre, visual art, music, and dance. Invitations had been sent to philanthropists, business leaders, tech entrepreneurs, and family foundations. Over 200 of the city's finest had RSVP'd.

The gala was scheduled for December 14th – tonight. At my desk that morning, I confirmed final changes to the guest list with the receptionist, checked that the changes had been sent to the caterer, and responded to the last emails in my inbox. My morning was nearly uninterrupted – I'd blocked the day off in my calendar and close coworkers knew that I'd be unavailable. My only distraction that morning had been the arrival of Antoinette Giry, head of the university's dance program.

From her biography on the dance program's website, I knew that Antoinette was in her early fifties. If I hadn't known that she'd studied dance in Europe for two decades before coming to North America and teaching at the university for another eight years, I would have guessed her to be ten years younger. She was tall, at least five-foot-ten, lean, and showed perfect posture. Walking into my office, her steps were light and her stance elegant.

"Christine! I'd hoped you would be in this morning," she began.

"I'm just about to walk over to the museum to check that everything's ready for tonight – what can I do for you?" I hoped that she wouldn't demand one of her 'big favours'. In the last two years, Antoinette had asked for assistance starting scholarships and introducing several of her students to creative directors at the city's theatres and dance troupes. As a professional, I respected Antoinette. She was an excellent teacher and the students who could brave her strict methods went on to join opera companies and ballet ensembles.

"A personal favour," she began. "My daughter, Meg, arrived home last night. I'd like to bring her with me to the gala, as my guest. I can pay for her ticket, of course."

"She's not a current student, is she?" I asked, looking up Antoinette Giry in the university's personnel files.

"No, she's a graduate. She's finishing her MFA in New York."

"New York? That must be exciting for her," I said, making idle chatter while I added Meg's name to the guest list and forwarded the update to the caterer.

"I'm sure it is," Antoinette said stiffly.

I'd heard through a colleague that Antoinette's daughter was a dancer as well and had completed her undergraduate degree at the university but had chosen to pursue graduate studies elsewhere, away from her mother.

"Well, she's on the list, and I've added her to your table for dinner. You can pay for her ticket after the event."

Antoinette said a terse thank you and left my office, leaving a faint trace of rose perfume in her wake. I'd never met her daughter – she must have started at the university while I was in my senior year – and I was curious to meet the younger Giry who must have lived in her mother's shadow for years. No wonder she'd left for New York!

After Antoinette's footsteps had faded from earshot, I closed the lid on my laptop and tossed my keys and phone into my purse. Pulling my coat off the rack behind me, I left my desk and said goodbye to the receptionist on my way out.

The starting point for tonight's gala was a museum on the south end of the campus. The venue was a short walk from my office and I made the trip in under ten minutes. I noted a steady stream of tourists streaming in and out of the glass doors, pulling shopping bags, strollers and backpacks with them.

Within the hour, the museum would close to the public and a small army would transform the public gallery space into an intimate dining area. Guests would arrive in the museum's lobby for cocktails before taking the elevator to the top floor for dinner. The university's contemporary dance troupe would perform during the cocktail hour and the jazz musicians would perform through dinner. After the meal, faculty members would lead guests on guided tours through the university's arts buildings where they were would meet with dancers, artists, musicians and performers from each of the university's fine arts programs.

The gala was part fundraiser, part showcase, and part networking event. If it was successful, I could repeat the event each year. As it was, I'd hoped to sell 300 tickets and had only sold 222 – 223 including Meg Giry. Even if the event was a complete flop, I had still raised several thousand dollars through ticket sales and would, hopefully, bolster the reputation of the fine arts faculty.

Once inside the museum, I waved my event pass at the security guard and stepped into the elevator and onto the fifth floor. The caterer had already set up round tables and high-backed dining chairs. A staff person was rolling around a cart full of linens and draping cloths over each table. I scanned the room, noting the expressions on each of the catering employees' faces. Each worker looked focused, but none looked visibly stressed. A good sign.

After checking the final seating chart and menu with the caterer, I left, satisfied that the dinner preparations were in good hands, and took a cab to my apartment to get dressed and ready.

My fiancé, Raoul, was home for the afternoon. He sat at the kitchen table, a stack of term papers next to his elbow and a mug of tea steaming in front of him. Peppermint, I deduced from the smell. He brought tea home in restaurant-sized cases and drank several cups a day. It was exam season and, always the professor, Raoul was at home, in jeans and rolled-up sleeves, grading essays. I loved him for it.

Once I'd taken off my coat, scarf, and boots, Raoul met me in the living room and wrapped his arms around me in a warm, comforting hug.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, scanning my face for signs of distress or worry.

"I'm fine," I replied. "I'm just stopping in to get ready before I head over to the museum. Did you bring my dress back from the cleaners?"

"It's hanging in the closet, out of Ella's reach," he said, inclining his glance to the brown tabby lounging across the back of the couch.

"Thank you," I said. In the four years we'd been a couple, Raoul had been the only constant in a life where jobs changed, apartments moved, and parents died. When we'd met, I was a master's student and he was a sessional lecturer in the university's classical studies department. Years later, our careers had begun and we'd settled into a comfortable routine living together and supporting each other's work.

"You're sure it's okay for me to stay home tonight? I can still dust off a suit and come out with you," Raoul suggested.

"No, the guest list is ready to go and I'll be able to meet more prospects if I go alone," I answered. "You might scare off all the old rich people."

"I have it on good authority that 'old rich people' adore classical studies professors."

"Really, is that your plan? Seduce a wealthy heiress and leave your poor working-class girlfriend out on the curb," I teased, closing the remaining space between us.

"I wouldn't dream of leaving my fiancée for anyone. No matter how wealthy or how close to her expiration date she is."

Fiancée. It was the 'f word'. I loved Raoul, but hated it when he introduced me as his fiancée. Inevitably, the word led to inquiries about dates, flowers, invitations, and family plans. Questions that should have made me squeal with delight but, instead, made me cringe with discomfort. Oh Raoul. Shelving my thoughts, I left his embrace to get ready in the bedroom.

Within half an hour, I was standing before the bedroom mirror wearing an ankle-length navy blue satin gown and silver strappy heels that added inches to my petite frame. My hair, a mess of dark waves on most days, was pulled into a low chignon and held in place with an jeweled hair clip.

Twenty minutes later, I was back at the museum, helping to usher visitors out as the museum closed for the day. A family visiting from Vancouver complained they'd bought day passes in advance but were quickly placated with a refund.

Once the museum was clear of tourists, I began to direct the staff in setting up the entrance and registration table.

I was in the midst of spreading dance cards out on the registration table when my director, Karen, walked in carrying a tote bin full of table numbers and favors for the guests.

"You've arrived early," she said, noting my state of dress with approval. "I was hoping I'd be able to help you set up."

"No, we're almost ready," I answered. "You can pass me the box of gift bags and take the table cards to the caterer upstairs and then we should be set."

"Perfect. The guests will start arriving in the next hour or so."

I watched for the next several minutes while Karen fussed over last-minute details and needlessly repositioned items on the registration table. Once she was satisfied, she retreated to the washroom to check her makeup. I lingered at the front table, checking email on my smartphone while waiting for the rest of the event team to arrive.

Two emails from guests sending their regrets – I could give their seats away if other guests brought plus one's. One email from an event sponsor confirming signage. One message from my assistant confirming the attendance of E. St. Clair – the name felt familiar, but I failed to place it to a person. If Mr. St. Clair had RSVP'd earlier, the university's fundraising research team could have prepared a brief biographical sketch. One last message, from Raoul, telling me that I looked beautiful and wishing me luck tonight. Sweet man. I'd left some of his favorite beers in the fridge earlier in the week and hoped that he was taking a break from grading papers.

Event volunteers Sara, Mark, and Janice arrived with the first guests, leaving me free to step away from the registration table and mingle with the new arrivals. Over the next hour, I drifted between klatches of attendees, introducing myself and describing the newest and most innovative programs in the fine arts faculty. I'd recognized several of the guests from my time working at the opera house. Others I recognized from city magazines and business newspapers.

When it was time for dinner, I stood on a platform and introduced the university president, who formally welcomed everyone to tonight's event and gave the cue for the jazz band to begin the musical accompaniment. I'd intentionally seated myself at a half-empty table in the back of the room so that I'd be able to run between the kitchen, the elevator, and the reception. Most of the light in the upper floor of the museum came from floor-to-ceiling windows along the side of the building. The winter sun had set early, leaving the room dimly lit.

I was engaged in conversation with the woman sitting to my left – a curator with the national art gallery, small chance of a gift but strong network – when a tall man in black took the empty seat to my right.

"Have you checked in with the registration desk?" I asked absently, keeping my attention on the curator as she finished telling me about an upcoming exhibition.

"I saw no need," he said, his voice like a rub of velvet against my ears. "I believe that your office confirmed my attendance this afternoon. Erik St. Clair."

He held out his hand for an introductory shake and I froze as I met his eyes. Erik St. Clair was dressed impeccably in a tailored black tuxedo, a white linen shirt that looked as if it had been purchased this morning and glossy black cufflinks that shone in the candlelight. A bone-white mask covered the left half of his face from forehead to upper lip. Beneath the mask, a pair of topaz eyes met mine in an unblinking stare. Everything about the man - from his clothing to his bearing to the curve of his lip - exuded power and intensity.

Resisting the urge to gulp, I remembered my manners and proffered my hand, keeping my eyes on his through the hand shake. He didn't blink or look away.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Erik."

"And you are Christine Daaé, correct? The university president nodded in your direction when I asked who had organized this little fête."

"Yes, I'm Christine Daaé, faculty of fine arts," I added out of habit.

"I remember your name from the city opera house. You performed in the chorus of Faust and La Bohème. And worked with the opera's managers?"

"I did, yes. Have we met before?" I asked, confused. I guessed that he'd looked up my biography on the university's website, or else knew me through a common acquaintance. If I'd met a man in a mask during my time at the opera house, I would have remembered him. Even amongst theatre people, masks weren't common accessories.

"We never made an introduction, though I attended many performances and recitals."

I didn't know how to reply to his cryptic statement, so opted to change the subject, "What brings you to the gala? Are you a supporter of the university?"

"Simple curiosity," he replied, his eyes burning into mine. Erik's intense gaze made me feel raw and exposed and, out of instinct, I gripped the edge of my shawl and pulled the thin material higher around my bare arms. His eyes followed my movement and his glance settled on my engagement ring for a moment before returning to my face.

"I have to check on.. the catering," I mumbled lamely. "I hope you enjoy your evening."

Escape! Once I was safely beyond the door to the kitchen, I glanced back at Erik. He sat at the table for several minutes and didn't attempt conversation with any of the other guests. Although wait staff brought each course to him, he never once lifted a utensil to eat.

If he was simply curious, I was absolutely burning with questions.

Pulling out my phone, I opened the email that confirmed Erik St. Clair's attendance tonight. I forwarded the message along to a colleague on the prospect research team and requested more information. Development researchers kept records on all alumni and friends of the university, as well as biographies of persons of interest. All the information – addresses, wealth indicators, relationships, event attendance – was obtained through the prospect or else using public means. If Erik was able to afford a $500 dinner to satisfy "simple curiosity," there was a good chance that he was a person of interest and that the research team would have something on file.

Through the rest of the meal, I moved between tables, introducing myself and checking in on the university's supporters. All agreed that the food was superb and the musicians were very talented. Some introduced me to their friends and table mates – business leaders, philanthropists, and well-connected socializers – and I began a mental list of people to request follow-up meetings with. While the guest pool was smaller than I'd originally hoped for, the calibre of attendees was high and I had strong hopes for raising large gifts.

During dessert, my phone pinged with an incoming email. I excused myself to visit the washroom, where I would be able to discreetly read and answer any messages.

CONFIDENTIAL – PRIVILEGED INFORMATION

Christine,

You were right – we had a bio on file for Erik St. Clair. There isn't much history available. He's very private. This is the first university event he's attended.

Hope you're enjoying your evening,

Amanda.

Erik St. Clair

Graduated BSc in 1995, MSc in 1996, MBA in 1999.

Born in 1978, approx. 40 years old. Addresses in Toronto, New York, Vancouver, and London (UK).

Owner and CEO of ESC Holdings. Business interests in real estate, finance, medical research, architecture, and fine arts. Close associate of Nadir Khan, CFO of ESC Holdings.

Few public appearances – affinity is difficult to determine. No previous events or prior donations. Capacity for a multi-million dollar gift.

I read the biography with interest, but was frustrated at not seeing any personal details. No mention of family, marriage, or outside interests. No notes on activities he'd participated in as a student. Very little I could begin a conversation with. And nothing about his mask, or why he wore it. But if he had business interests in fine art and the capacity to make a major gift, I needed to keep him happy and engaged.

I left the washroom, tucking my phone into my clutch as I re-entered the dining area. The musicians were performing a Dave Brubeck standard from Time Out and the familiar tune made me smile.

"Working late?" Erik asked, startling me so that I nearly dropped my phone. Erik was lingering at the edge of the room and, from his stiff posturing, I could tell that he was uncomfortable.

"Can I get you anything? A drink from the bar?" I offered, wondering if he knew I'd been snooping on him.

His mouth tightened into a hard line and his eyes searched mine, assessing my motives. His glance fell again to my left hand, making me conscious of the ring I wore there.

"I would like a drink very much, thank you," he said, placing his hand against the small of my back and steering me towards the bar. I bristled at the unexpected contact, but kept my composure, biting my lip in silent discomfort. Personal space was important to me and, with few exceptions, I didn't like to be touched.

At the bar, Erik pored over the spirit selection and chose a 15-year scotch without ice. Without asking, he ordered a glass of port wine for me. The bartender pushed both drinks towards Erik, who offered a generous tip. Drink in hand, Erik led us to a cocktail table at the edge of the room. He set his scotch down and leaned over the table, his eyes watching me. The quiet was maddening.

"Which of the tours are you most interested in?" I asked, forcing a conversation.

"I won't be attending any," he answered, sipping his scotch. "I have other business to attend to tonight."

"Oh," I answered. "Will you be visiting the university again soon?"

"Perhaps," he said, pausing. "I would like to see you again, Christine. Don Quichotte will be opening at the national arts centre next Saturday. You will join me. I have a private box; we won't be disturbed."

It wasn't a question. He hadn't asked me to attend the performance with him; he'd told me I would go. I bristled at his audacity. While fundraisers regularly met with prospective donors at events and in public places, the thought of an intimate meeting in the private box of an opera house crossed my ethical boundaries. I was a fundraiser, not a friend.

"I don't think that's appropriate."

"It's entirely appropriate. You worked at the opera house and I'm a patron – it's neutral, shared territory. You're raising money for the fine arts faculty and I intend to make a contribution. If I get the pleasure of your company in a private setting for three hours, who am I to complain?"

Was this a business meeting or a date? And what would Raoul think?

As if reading my thoughts, Erik continued, "If this about the ring on your finger, you are engaged, not married. Do you have a date in mind for the upcoming nuptials? I doubt your intended would be bothered by a meeting with a university benefactor."

"No, no date," I stammered, silently cursing the ring for its power to inspire uncomfortable questions. "But. A private box in a theatre – that's highly irregular."

Erik sighed, frustrated by my evasion. "I will pick you up at seven o'clock on Saturday. You will be ready."

I parted my lips to protest, but Erik turned around, placed his empty glass on the table and left the dining area. I hung back, still holding the untouched glass of port in my right hand.

Clearly, Erik was used to having his way. A common - and grating - trait in successful entrepreneurs. Still, I was intrigued.

Men like Erik St. Clair had personal Wikipedia pages and appeared in Forbes listings, business blogs, and society magazines. His scant biography had offered the barest of insights.

For all his wealth and power, Erik St. Clair was a ghost.