You may think me callous to write this and not tell you to your face, but I think it's easier if all the facts are laid before you. After you read this I'm sure you'll have questions, and I will answer then as best as I can, I promise. But what you about to read are the details of the aftermath of my break up with Richard. We fought constantly in that last month and then I learned the truth. He was having an affair.

That was the last straw. I ended our engagement and took off on an extended "vacation". I needed to be alone and as far as away from the states as I could get. I went to Paris and that was where I met him.

Let's be honest, there's only one reason why someone in my situation runs off to a foreign country: to have an affair. I was mad and upset and spiteful. I thought 'if he could do it so could I'. But that doesn't mean you were unwanted. On the contrary, when I found out I was pregnant I was overjoyed. In fact, you gave me something to live for, someone to focus on who needed me now that I was forced back into the real world.

You never see a disaster coming. I know now that I was lucky. I wasn't thinking and I could have been seriously hurt or even killed. When I was knocked out during the mugging it was Erik who whisked me away to safety, so you see why I couldn't deny him my company later. He took care of me when I was injured like some guardian angel when he could have just as easily left me there. I woke up in a bedroom in house that I had never seen before. I was scared, but he was there. He assured me that he meant no harm; that he had brought me here to tend to my sprained ankle. He had even recovered my purse.

But even though I don't know as much about Erik as I should I am sure that your father saved my life. He was kind, gentle, and told me I reminded him of a woman he lost long ago. I know, it sounds like a corny line from a romance novel, but his words seduced me. He showed me her picture, he wore it in a locket close to his heart and this woman looked a lot like me. The picture was faded and in black and white, but there was a resemblance. He called her Christine.

Erik's home was actually a penthouse that overlooked Paris. It was a lovely view at night, looking out over the lights of the city. We spent most of my two week in Paris together. He took me to cafés, museums, shows, and concerts. He wielded great influence in the city and the proprietors of these places always welcomed him like a dignitary. But through it all he never showed any egotism.

He loved art, masonry work, and spoke of Parisian history as if he had lived it. He had an impressive collection of books, and most of them were biographies of artists and musicians, along with stacks of books on famous architecture. He loved the classics and read me the works of great French poets.

But, above all, he worshipped music and there was always some tune playing softly in the background, he had a stereo system linked to every room in his home, even the bathroom. Music transcends all other things, he told me at one point. It connects people who have no other way of communicating. Once the music entwines itself in your soul it never leaves you. He always spoke like that, in that knowing way that showed he was intelligent beyond his years - I judged him to be in his early to mid thirties, forty at the most because of his worldly knowledge.

He was fluent in English and French, but could sing in countless other languages. Italian arias from opera were his favorite. He was a composer himself, and strived to create music that could stand up to Mozart, Chopin, and Beethoven. He collected instruments and had an entire room filled with them. They were all in pristine shape and his favorite treasure was a violin he claimed was made in the 1800's. He even told me he played the organ several times a week at the cathedral, just to stay in practice.

So you see why I was entranced by him? And why my need to sleep with some random stranger was overshadowed by my love for this man I had known for only a week? Yes, it was love. I had no regrets then and I have none now; especially now that I have a piece of him to carry in my heart.

And one day the two of us will take a trip to Paris and find him again, permanently completing our family.

I know, it sounds like a corny line from a romance novel, but his words seduced me. Charlotte Davis reread the line and sighed. This was not some ironic line penned, by a smartass author in a Harlequin novel, to make woman of a certain age swoon at the charms of a romantic hero.

This was a letter written to Charlotte by her mother Kirstin explaining the details behind Charlotte's birth. As many times as she had read this letter, Charlotte couldn't comprehend its true meaning; couldn't come to terms that she was the product of a one night stand. Maybe it would be different if her mother was there with her, to explain face to face the details of this strange confrontation, as she had promised she would.

But Kristin was dead. She had passed away, unexpectedly, in childbirth twenty-two years ago leaving Charlotte to be raised by her grandparents. And while they had treated her well, they treated her with pity, like the orphan she was.

But then, when Charlotte turned, eighteen, she was given the letter. Vince, her grandfather had pulled her aside and handed her a plain white envelope with her name scrawled on it. He had explained, sheepishly, that he had no idea what it was. He and his wife Jenny had found it when they went through their daughter's room and there had been debate over what to do with it. Jenny wanted to read it, but Vince opposed that idea, saying that Kristen had meant for her daughter's eyes alone.

Because they didn't know what the letter had contained, they had waited to give it to Charlotte until she was old enough to handle the weight of the mystery. The note was dated, and it had been written right around the time Kristen discovered her pregnancy, but before she knew the sex of the child. The question now was whether or not Charlotte believed her mother's story. But, despite that, she made the burden hers alone. She refused to tell Vince and Jenny what the letter contained. Her grandparents had not taken the news of Kristen's pregnancy well and after she died their tolerance of this mystery man had not improved.

Charlotte hadn't known what to do at first, so she had refrained from taking any action. Instead she focused on college. And that was when she met and fell in love with Philip Coleman. He was everything she had wanted in a lover, and Charlotte had been ecstatic when he proposed on her birthday.

"Good afternoon, this is your captain speaking."

Charlotte jumped as she was unexpectedly jarred out of her thoughts.

"We would ask that you fasten your seatbelts and put your seatbacks and tray tables in the upright and locked position. We will begin our descent into Le Bourget momentarily. The time is 3:45 PM.

Philip reached over and patted Charlotte's leg. "Are you alright? You looked pretty intently immersed in your thoughts." He whispered to her under the captain's announcements that were being repeated in French.

Paris. Charlotte was really going to Paris. After the engagement, Charlotte had shared the secret of her mysterious father. Philip had been intrigued and had even talked her into this trip. Why should she put it off now that she was out of college and starting a new life? Surprised by his genuine care of her Charlotte had agreed and here they were.

"I'm sorry," Charlotte told him. "I'm not making good company right now. I just can't stop thinking about everything."

Philip leaned back in his seat. "You're distracted, I don't blame you. This is a big step for you, so no worries."

Charlotte smiled. "You're to good to me."

"Well you shouldn't be making this trip alone," he replied. "I'm flattered that you choose to tell me this story, so why wouldn't I help you track down your father? Have you given any thought to what you're going to say to him?"

"Honestly no," Charlotte replied. "I mean, all I have to go on is that his name is Erik, he lived in a penthouse twenty years ago, and he's some kind of eccentric millionaire genius."

"I would think that would make it easier to find," Philip told her. "If he has as much influence as your mother hinted at someone has to know where he is."

"It's like something out of a story," Charlotte told him. "I mean it sounds eerily familiar."

Philip smiled. "Erik, the mad genius in the Paris Opera House and Kristin Davis, your mother, reminding him of a woman named Christine Daaé. It is ironic."

"Grandma said my mother brought Leroux's book home with her and that she read it over and over," Charlotte told him. "And there are the other coincidences that parallel the book."

"Do enlighten me to what you've discovered."

Charlotte squirmed in her seat. "She came to Paris after a break up with a man named Richard. Christine's second suitor was named Raoul. And in the book he had a brother named Philippe. The Phantom lets her go with Raoul in the end."

"What happens to the brother?" Philip asked, morbid curiosity taking over.

Charlotte wouldn't look at him. "He dies. Drowning."

***

Since they were spending a week in Paris, Philip decided that they should spend the first few days sightseeing around the city. He didn't want Charlotte to spend the whole of their trip obsessing over a man who they may not even find.

She seemed alright with displacing things for those few days, but then the curiosity took over and she went to the city office to see if she could find anything pertaining to Erik. But without a last name to look up the administrators couldn't help her.

Next, Philip took her to the police station to see if there had been a report filed by Kristin about the mugging. There hadn't been. But a kind, older cop had taken them aside and offered her a strange piece of information, off the record.

"There was a strange incident that occurred the night after you say your mother arrived here. A call came in reporting that if sounded like a woman was being attacked outside of the Opera House."

Philip and Charlotte exchanged a knowing look at the mention of the location.

"May I ask what you found?" Philip asked.

"There was no sign of a woman, but there was a man lying in the street, dazed, as if he was just waking." The cop shook his head. "He said he had been attacked by a man in a mask and that, before he passed out, he saw this person carry a woman off."

"Did his story hold any weight?" Charlotte asked.

The officer sighed. "All we knew was that he had a concussion. Someone had knocked him silly, but there was no sign of any woman or of his mystery assailant."

***

A half hour later Charlotte and Philip sat in a small café drinking coffee.

"My guess is that your father knocked out the robber before he could truly hurt your mother."

Charlotte nodded. "If Erik hadn't been there… What else would that man have done to my mother?" She shuddered and tightened her grip on the coffee mug.

"Let not think about that," Philip told her. "But this mystery keeps getting more and more intriguing. I mean, at least now we have a location, a point of reference to start looking for clues."

"It makes me wonder though…" Charlotte began.

Philip eyed her, but kept silent.

"My mother never mentioned a mask in her letter. All she talked about was how influential this man was, never that he was deformed."

"Stop paralleling the novel," Philip told her. "It's probably just a coincidence the mugger said that. It was evening, so maybe there were shadows covering this man's face."

"He told the cop that he pulled off the mask."

"No, what he said was the man 'ripped off the man's face' Char. I agree with Officer LeBlanc, this man was either drunk or got hit hard enough to make him delusional. You can't pull off a man's face and leave no trace of blood."

"So it's just a coincidence that my mother was rescued by a masked man in front of the Paris Opera?"

Philip rolled his eyes. "What about the penthouse she said he lived in?"

Charlotte shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe he does own a fancy penthouse, I mean it is modern day and all, so he could. But without a last name I can't look into real estate records. Or my mother just made that all up to protect him. Maybe he really does live in a house under the opera beyond the lake."

"Char, it's just a story. There's no Phantom of the Opera."

"You sound just like Raoul!"

"And you sound…" Philip stopped, shook his head, and sighed. When he spoke again his voice was calmer and barely a whisper. "Char I'm sorry, but I'm starting to worry about you. I brought you here to track down your father, a flesh and blood man who saved your mother's life. What you're suggesting… Do you realize that you just insinuated your father could be a fictional character?"

"Obviously he's not a character. Obviously he was real and my mother met him." Charlotte stood up. "And I'm going to prove it." She got up and turned to leave.

"Charlotte…"

"No!" she stalked off.

"Damn it," Philip cursed. He moved to follow her.

"Monsieur, you must wait," a voice called to him. "You must pay the tab."

Philip slid back into his chair and grumbled. At least he knew where Charlotte was going and could catch up to her, but that didn't mean he had to like it.

***

Charlotte was livid. How could Philip fail to acknowledge these coincidences? Something strange was going on in Paris and she was connected it, so it was her duty to see this through. She wiped away tears, thinking how happy Philip had been to help her. Now he thought she was crazy.

Well she'd show him! The question was how…

If she went to the theatre now he'd follow her, so her first thought was to duck into a church. Charlotte figured she'd hide there for a few hours before going to the Opera House. Once there she'd conceal her presence and explore the building after hours.

But then she thought better of her plan. Doubling back, she went back to the hotel and grabbed her knapsack and added some provisions. Then she went to a local store and bought a flashlight, just in case there were no lights in the Opera House after hours.

Only then did she find a church. Kneeling in an ornate pew, she prayed that once she found her answers Philip would forgive her brash behavior.

***

The Opera House had closed and Charlotte was alone. Pushing back her hesitance, she emerged from the restroom and moved about the deserted landmark. It was eerie at night with only minimal lighting to illuminate the space.

But this had been her choice. She needed to find her answers. Needed to find him.

"Hello?" she called. "Is there anyone here? Erik? Erik, I need to talk to you…"

The sound of footsteps broke the din. A shadow moved in the corner of Charlotte's eye. She spun around to see no one. All was quiet except for the ponding of her heart. She moved with growing paranoia, trying to see if there was else in the vicinity.

Sure that her own imagination was finally taking over, Charlotte turned towards the exit, hoping she could find a way out. But she found herself staring into the beam of a flashlight. Biting back a scream, Charlotte stumbled back. She couldn't see the man holding the light, but by his clothing she guessed he was a night watchman.

Shit.