A/N: Hello and welcome to my latest Phantom of the Opera story. This is a companion piece to The Angel of Music. To those of you who may be reading this that read and reviewed that story, thank you for your support and kind words. So many of you asked for a sequel and this came to me the other day and I decided to write it and see where it went. I hope you enjoy and, as always, all reviews are much appreciated! The title is a nod to the Phantom movie. I bought the CD yesterday and absolutely LOVE it. I am so excited for the movie, no matter what the nay-sayers say. I love Michael Crawford dearly but he couldn't be in the movie and I think Gerard Butler and Emmy Rossum's voices are spectacular!!

Summary: This story follows the life of Erik and Christine's daughter Elizabeth Christine. It starts from when she is thirteen and then goes to when she is sixteen and first starts to sing at the Paris Opera House. The premise is this….what happens when Erik and Christine's daughter begins performing at the Paris Opera House and hears of the Opera Ghost?

Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera or any of the characters. Unfortunately!

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Growing up I never thought there was anything 'different' about my father. He was just Papa. Loving and caring, he called me his little princess. He loved me and my brother, Stephan, dearly, but he was completely devoted to our mother. He quite literally worshiped her. When I was older I would wish that I would ever find a man to love me as much as Papa loved Mama.

It was not until I was older and went to school that I first started to realize that Papa was different from everyone else. I had thought little of the white satin mask that he wore when other people were around. It was just there, I did not think much of it. The only people that ever came around anyway were Monsieur and Madame Emond. Charles was Papa's business partner.

I knew Papa was disfigured but I never thought much about it until I went to school. Until I realized that Papa never met with my teachers, that it was always Mama who went to school, Mama who went to my performances. Never Papa.

I grew to think he did not love me, I never thought for a moment that he was protecting me. I just knew that I was hurt that he never went to see me sing and over time I grew resentful of my father. I thought that if he loved me he would come to my performances, even though I knew he preferred to stay away from people.

How could he praise my singing and yet never come to see me perform?

I was thirteen years old when things exploded the first time….

Xxx

"Beth, come, we must leave or you will be late for your performance!"

"No, I am not going! I am never singing again!" I cried, throwing myself onto my bed, sobbing.

"Beth, please. You have been so excited for this recital. Your father has spent so much time helping you rehearse…" Mama said, her voice pleading.

"No! I am not going!" I said, my voice wobbly with tears.

I heard the quiet snick as the door opened, but I did not look up. There was a quiet rustle as my mother walked across the room and then sat gingerly on the bed next to me. A warm, gentle hand rubbed my back.

"Beth, darling, what is wrong?" Mama asked.

I shook my head and refused to look up.

"Bethie, please, tell me what is wrong," Mama said, using the nickname that my father always called me.

I only sobbed louder.

Mama sighed. "I cannot help you if you do not tell me what is wrong."

There was a quiet desperation in her voice that even in my thirteen year old tantrum I could hear.

I looked up. My face was streaked with tears and my unruly curly hair was a mess. "Papa does not love me," I whispered, my face turning red with shame.

My mothers' eyebrows flew up and her mouth opened slightly as she stared at me. "Bethie, darling! Whatever would make you think such a thing? Your father adores you!"

I shook my head vehemently. "No he does not!"

My mother looked perplexed. Her eyes were green, deep green like the emerald ring that she wore. Her dark hair was curly, like mine, but she always looked so beautiful and elegant, unlike me. My hair was always a mess and I had none of the self confidence and elegance that my mother, Christine Daae de Nuit, had.

"What makes you think such a thing, sweetheart?"

"He-he never goes to my performances," I whispered. "He must think my singing is dreadful and he is embarrassed of me."

Mama's jaw dropped. "Oh, Bethie! No, darling, that is not it at all!" she said, pulling me into a firm hug. "Your Papa is proud of you, very proud. He loves you so much!"

"Then why won't he see me sing? Why won't he go to my performances?" I asked, my voice shrill.

Mama took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Her eyes were warm as she reached down and gently brushed a lock of hair out of my eyes and tucked it behind my ear. She smiled slightly as she said, "I always knew that one day this would come up."

"What do you mean?"

Mama looked away from me and stared out the window above my bed for a moment. Then she looked back down at me.

"Beth, the reason your father does not go to your performances has nothing to do with how he feels about you. Well, it does, but not in the way that you think."

"I do not understand," I said.

"You know that your father does not look like other people…"

I nodded. "Yes, I know."

"The reason your father does not go out in public is because of how he looks. Because of…his face."

"But it is not that bad! He cannot help it."

"I know, darling, but his life has been…hard."

"Because of his face?"

"Yes, Bethie. Because of his face."

I thought about that. "But why, Mama?" I asked. "Papa is wonderful, why would people be mean to him just because of how he looks?"

"People can be cruel, Beth, and your father prefers to stay away from people whenever he can. He is ashamed of how he looks and he does not want to cause us, any of us, shame."

"But he doesn't!" I protested, sitting up. My anger at my father was disappearing, leaving in its wake anger at a world that had hurt him. "I am not ashamed of him!"

"I know, Beth, but your father…he is stubborn."

We sat in silence for several moments while Mama stroked my hair. Then she wiped the tears off of my cheeks. "We can still make it to your recital. Shall we go?"

I nodded firmly. "Yes, Mama. I want to go. I will sing for Papa, even if he will not go. I understand and I do not want him to be hurt," I said firmly.

"That's my girl," Mama said, smiling at me. "Now, shall we get you into your dress and fix your hair?"

"Yes, Mama," I said and gave her a wobbly smile as we stood and went to my bureau to find the dress for my recital.

((well? What did you think? Please review and let me know! Thanks!!))