A/N: It's a very good thing I know precisely where this story is going/how it's going to end, otherwise I'd be in trouble. In a matter of 28 reviews, I managed to get people who were passionate and insistent upon every side of the love rectangle: pro-Erik/Christine, Raoul/Christine, Erik/Emily, Emily/Raoul, and a smattering of "Fill-in-the-blank is too good for anyone in this story!" Sheesh! Lol! Now, I tried my best to be fair to every character and show their side of the story, but I didn't expect to have people spread so far across the board, let alone so enthusiastic about their stances! Hehe! It makes my black, wicked heart sing with glee!

Be prepared, dearies: some, if not all, of these characters are juxtaposed to one another. Someone is going to lose out, if not multiple someones. Cruel of me, yes, but that's what happens with these sticky overlapping relationships. Just brace yourselves in the case that the character you're rooting for is the one who ends up with the shortest straw, and my apologies in advance.

We're making a leap in time here to avoid fillers and boringness. Don't worry, I'll briefly go over what you've missed through the characters' thoughts.

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Four months later

"What the bloody fucking hell is this?"

Emily winced and drew her sore legs together, pressing her back up against the frigid headboard for support. Every joint in her body ached, and she could see her breath form small, silver clouds as it left her mouth. It was absurdly cold for October, and the nights— this one in particular— had become almost unbearable.

"You heard me, wench! What the hell are you trying to pull?"

Defiance flared in her eyes as she lowered them to the smooth mound beneath her swollen breasts. "Ain't you never seen a pregnant woman before?" she snapped irritably.

But her customer's pants were already re-buttoned, and in three brisk strides he had crossed the room to the small, moldy door. Harsh orange light spilled into the dark room as he threw it open and stormed down into the main lobby. Amongst the moans and raucous cries that rose from the rooms surrounding her, she could hear her customer's voice booming at the manager of the establishment— a bony, horse-faced woman named Mallorie.

"I didn't pay one hundred and fifty francs for a cow!" He slammed his fist down on Mallorie's desk. "Either give me my money back, or give me another girl. That one—" Emily winced again. "—needs to be put out to pasture 'til her bastard's been sloshed from one sewer to the next. What the hell kind of operation is this anyway, selling a pregnant whore for full price?"

There was an angry edge to Mallorie's tone, but not in Emily's defense; she was a proud old hag who did not like to have her business criticized. "Oh, shove it up your ass, Oriel. You've been coming here since you were sixteen, and never complained once. And might I point out that you didn't even notice until her clothes were off. She's not that far along, and she's petite as it is." Before the customer could get riled up again, Mallorie continued smoothly, "But our customers' satisfaction is paramount here, of course. I'll fetch you another girl. You've had Triage before, haven't you? Liked her, if I recall? Triage!"

And that was the end of that.

Sighing, Emily leaned her head back and braced herself for Mallorie's outburst. This was the fourth time in the past week that a customer had stormed out of her room in a rage; the others had been too drunk to notice her circumstance. Mallorie had been lying— it was very noticeable. She felt like a balloon filled with liquefied lead: heavy, huge, and disgusting.

Just as she had expected, the distinct, brisk tap of Mallorie's heeled shoes approached her door a few moments later. The manager burst into the room without bothering with any pleasantries, and glared down at Emily, bony wrists planted on her hips.

"Madame—" Emily began apologetically.

"Don't bother with the pitiful and innocent act, Em," Mallorie interrupted sharply. "Oriel's right. I'm losing money and a reputation, here. You're a good worker, and I'll highly consider taking you back once the babe is born…"

Panic gripped Emily's racing heart, and she stumbled to her feet. "No! No, you don't understand! I 'ave no money, Madame, no family, no nothin'! The baby's not due for another five months. What am I to do until then? I 'ave to eat! I 'ave to 'ave a place to stay!"

The manager's face was stony. "You'll forgive me, but that's really not my problem, now, is it? I have a business to run here, Emily, not a charity. You can stay until morning, and then I want you out. Come back when the bastard is in diapers."

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The next morning, true to her word, Mallorie approached Emily with a callous air and pointed frostily to the door. Biting her lip to keep indignant tears at bay, the young British woman slipped into her thin, too-small coat and reluctantly stepped out onto the dim, gray, drizzly street.

Lost in an empty daze, she wandered for what was probably kilometers— straight through the grungy slums, then the farmer's market, across seven busy, crowded, noisy streets, into a middle-class residential area, and finally, by the time she realized that she had been walking for hours, looked up and found herself in a commercial district, with manicured brick shops that lined either side of the streets.

She took refuge under a bench, for whatever good it did her; she was already soaked to the bone, and the rain continued to pelt her. Hours passed as she simply lay there in a fetal position, still but for the faint rise and fall of her chest. After a while she grew numb to the cold— numb to everything. She stared out at the passing carriages' wheels with glazed eyes. To the passersby who bothered to notice her, she realized that she could probably be mistaken for dead. Well, she certainly felt it. Were it not for the small life curled up inside of her— the one reminder of the love, however brief, she had shared with Raoul de Chagny— perhaps she would never have risen from that stance.

Responding on cue, the little one squirmed and landed a solid kick on the inside of her womb, as if reminding her impatiently of his presence. She had taken to calling the child male in the hope— the prayer— that it would not grow up to be in a similar set of circumstances as its mother. Her son would be strong, handsome, and intelligent, like his father— and of course, Emily hadn't even a fleeting doubt about her son's parentage. In reality, the child's sire could be one of dozens of men, but a gut instinct— wishful thinking, perhaps— told her that the baby was unquestionably Raoul's. She did not fight it.

Sighing mournfully, she rubbed her swollen, rounded belly and whispered to it, "All right, I feel you. You're 'ungry. I get it. But what do you want me to do? Beg for food?"

In answer, her son continued to squirm.

A sad smile touched her lips as she crawled out from under the bench, climbing first to her knees, and then her feet, careful not to bang her head. "Your wish is my command, m'lord."

It was only a half-joking term of affection, after all; the child was nobility by blood— the rightful Vicomte de Chagny, unlike Christine's brat.

Her heart hardened at the very thought of that vile, deceptive woman, who seemed perfectly happy to play make-believe with the husband she had abandoned at the first sign of trouble. The hypocrisy was enough to drive Emily mad. Why was it that Christine, a woman of no noble birth from what she could tell, could accuse her of the same crime that she herself had committed, and win Raoul's heart? Unlike Emily, Christine had been off dallying with that masked savage and manipulator, Erik. It would serve them all right, Emily mused cruelly, if Christine's child was born with its true father's deformity.

Then, perhaps, Raoul would realize his error and crawl back to her on hands and knees, and take her and their child into his mansion where they would live happily ever after…

She laughed mockingly at herself. Here she stood, drenched, pregnant, penniless, homeless, and frozen stiff, and she was still naïve enough to hope for a fairy tale ending?

Shaking her head, she stood beneath the awning of the line of stores and walked briskly toward the nearest alley. Delicious smells wafted out from a corner café and deli, and she stopped to sniff the air longingly. A quick glance at the customers inside told her that she would never have the money to pay for such fine cuisine. Still, she lingered in the doorway, salivating as a waiter entered the dining area carrying a tray of steaming soup, bread, butter, jam, and cream.

So focused was she on the food itself that it took her a moment to recognize the man who was receiving the gourmet brunch.

Had she not been grasping the corner of the building, she was sure she would have collapsed in shock. There, as if summoned from thin air by her very thoughts, sat Raoul de Chagny and a man she didn't recognize, of equal wealth and class, judging by the looks of him.

After delivering the food to Raoul and his friend, the waiter looked up and approached Emily with a scowl.

"As I'm sure you can't read this," he growled, pointing to the sign in the window. "The sign says 'No Loitering.' Either come in and order something, or get out of here."

Lying had become second nature to Emily over the past few months— a handy, if shameful, trait. "My Mistress sent me to deliver a message to the Master, Monsieur. I was jus' tryin' to find him in the crowd, tha's all."

The waiter's expression shifted quite suddenly. "Oh. Very well, then. Proceed as you have been instructed." And with a stiff bow, he turned and wove back to the kitchens.

For a few seconds, she couldn't make her legs move. She stood, trembling and pale, just behind the threshold, staring in disbelief. Of all the days he might have appeared… of all the times they might have been reunited, it just had to be when she looked like a bloated, drowned rat. Naturally.

Her approach was excruciatingly slow. Raoul's back was facing her, and the man who was with him paid her no heed, which allowed her a few moments to listen in on their conversation.

"I have just come from the furniture depot in Auteuil. Christine wanted everything in birch wood: the armoire, the crib, the changing table, everything, and I've just hired an artist from Montmartre to paint it all in pastels, blue and yellow."

The other man nodded, and consulted a paper laid out on the table between them. "Excellent timing, actually. The wallpaper is almost finished for the nursery, but the primary playroom is still a work in progress. The insulation has been giving my workers trouble, with all this blasted rain we've been having. Mold is everywhere."

"I understand." Raoul took a sip of tea. "Well, you've got four months yet, if the doctor's word is worth anything. Just have it completed by then, and I'll be happy."

Before her brain could fully catch up, Emily took advantage of the closure of that particular conversation and cleared her throat softly. Both men turned to look at her, one in disgust, the other in incredulity.

"Emily?" Raoul's mouth fell open, and he scrambled to get to his feet as the other man looked in confusion from one of them to the other.

"You know this woman?"

But neither Raoul nor Emily heard him. Tears brimmed in Emily's eyes, unbidden, and blocked off her airway. Her face crumpled like tissue paper as her mouth worked silently, trying to form words that refused to come.

"You're soaked." Disbelief eroded into compassionate concern as Raoul removed his coat and draped it over her trembling shoulders. His fingers brushed her cheek briefly, and he jerked them away in surprise. "Mon Dieu, you're burning up!"

"No," Emily whispered, her voice quavering. "I'm cold."

A frown creased his brow. "You have a fever. I'm taking you to a doctor."

Though her heart burst at the seams with love at his thoughtfulness, her pride leapt forward with claws bared. "I'm not your problem anymore. You don't have to do that."

He wasn't listening to her. Already he had dug in his pocket and produced a large bill, which he handed to the other man at the table. "Forgive me, but I'm I afraid I must cut our luncheon a bit short. We will meet again next Tuesday, at the same time. Au revoir." And without further ado, he took Emily by the arm and led her at a brisk pace out of the restaurant and into the freezing rain. They had to wait by the curb for only a few seconds before a carriage bearing the de Chagny emblem pulled up in front of them.

"Get inside."

Emily stared at him with narrowed eyes for a few seconds before saying softly, "Don't play the 'ero for the sake of playing the 'ero. If Christine found out about this, she wouldn't approve."

Some unidentifiable emotion flickered in Raoul's ocean blue eyes before he repeated steadily, "Get inside."

As she settled into the de Chagny carriage with the Vicomte's jacket wrapped snugly around her shoulders, she couldn't help but feel triumphant. Hope flared up inside of her as their son kicked her again. Raoul had chosen to help her, knowing full well that his wife would be livid if she ever found out. Emily had to bite back a smug grin at the revelation that she had just struck a powerful blow, if a secret one, to Christine de Chagny.

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The doctor made her change into a clean robe and lay on a stiff mattress while he examined every centimeter of her, poking, prodding, and making notes on a small pad of paper.

"Seventeen weeks?" he guessed after a long stretch of silence. Emily blinked at him. "Your circumstance," he explained. "You are approximately four months along?"

After another beat or two, his words clicked. "Oh, the baby? Aye, somewhere around there."

He scribbled on his notepad. "Have you felt the child move yet?"

"Yes."

He wrote some more. "Any illness in the past few weeks?"

"Not really, except today."

"Mm." The doctor continued to pen her answers, and finally nodded. "Very well, Madame. Your fever is not a serious one, but I would suggest bed rest and a good deal of fluids over the next few days. If there are any complications I would like your husband to contact me immediately. As for the child, everything seems to be progressing nicely. Again, I wish to see you immediately if there are any abnormalities."

Emily didn't have the heart to correct the man's assumption on her marital status. "Merci, Monsieur." Once the doctor had left the room, she eyed her pile of sopping wet clothes reluctantly. She supposed she would just get soaked all over again once she went outside, but the prospect of slipping those cold, wet clothes on over her warm, dry skin was not a pleasant one. Deciding the doctor wouldn't mind if she just kept the cotton robe he had provided her, she shrugged, stepped down from the bed, and strode into the waiting room to meet Raoul.

"Well?"

She shrugged, burying her hands in the robe's pockets. "It's jus' a mild fever. Otherwise, the baby and I are fine." She stared firmly into Raoul's eyes as she stated the last part matter-of-factly, wanting to see his reaction.

And it was an amusing one, at that. A procession of emotions flickered through his beautiful eyes: first blank confusion, then realization, then shock, then anger, then fear, and finally a combination of all of them.

A muscle in his jaw twitched as he took a step forward, his eyes boring into hers. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Emily shrugged again, knowing her nonchalance would only frustrate him further. "I didn't know until after you decided to kick me out." She removed her hands from her pockets and crossed her arms over her chest.

Uncertainty flared in his ocean blue eyes. "Is it…" He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Is it mine?"

Emily lifted her chin and made a move for the door. "Go to 'ell," she answered dismissively. "You wouldn't care either way, so it makes no difference."

But Raoul was faster than her; he stepped in the way of the door and stared at her intensely. "Emily, just stop for a minute!" He took her shoulders firmly and forced her to meet his eye, and lowered his voice again once he had it. "Please…" he tried again, honest concern etched into his handsome face. "I need to know."

Fighting tears, Emily pursed her lips and answered as truthfully as she could. "I don't know, Raoul. The timing matches, yes, but there 'ave been other men. I 'ad to make a living, and there aren't many options for a poor, foreign woman in Paris."

She couldn't look at him any more, for there was pain and regret written in his face, and she didn't want to see it. After all, a fairy tale was all her dream could be; he wasn't going to give up Christine for a street urchin just because Emily was carrying his child. As far as he was concerned, Christine's baby was his as well…

A cruel idea sprang into her head. At first, she dismissed it as far too vindictive, but the wheels of her mind had been set in motion, and were gaining speed at an alarming rate. After only a few seconds, the appeal grew too strong; she surrendered to the devilish plan, trying not to smirk.

"My God!" she gasped, feigning a sudden revelation. "It is Erik's!"

Raoul frowned, visibly downtrodden. "You think the father is a man named Erik?"

"Yes," she said, trying not to sound too excited. "But not this child." Her hands fell protectively to her belly. "This one is yours."

His frown deepened. "I don't understand."

She turned away so he wouldn't see the glee that lit up her eyes. Adopting a sad and mysterious posture, she shook her head and waved a hand dismissively. "No… I shouldn't 'ave mentioned it. It's not my place."

Fortunately, Raoul latched onto the bait with eager jaws. "What are you talking about?"

She sighed dramatically and lowered her eyes to the floor. "Nothing."

His hands clamped onto her shoulders again, forcing her to turn and look at him. "Emily, whatever it is, tell me!"

Internally, she cackled in triumph. Externally, she adopted the facial expression of a young girl forced to name her best friend as the culprit of some childhood crime. "I jus' want you to be 'appy, Raoul. I don't want to ruin your relationship with your wife."

He raised an eyebrow. "What could you possibly have to say that would ruin my relationship with Christine?"

Emily bit her lip, both to maintain her hesitant expression and to suppress a smirk. " 'Er child is due in four months, right?"

"Yes."

"So the babe must 'ave been conceived five months ago."

Raoul narrowed his eyes. "Where are you going with this?"

Emily shrugged for the umpteenth time. "No, never mind. Forget I ever mentioned this…"

He gave her a brief, jarring shake that made her eyes go wide. "No! Finish what you were going to say! Finish it!" But she could tell by his tone of his voice that her arrow had already pierced its target; his anger was not directed at her, but at his own gullibility.

Her voice was soft and as heartbreakingly gentle as she could manage as she spoke the harsh, cruel truth of the matter. "You were with me five months ago, in England. And Christine was with a masked Parisian man called Erik."

Raoul's breath, previously halted, now started to come faster and faster, until his chest was heaving and a thin sheen of sweat broke out on his brow. "Why would I trust you? You're making it up! You just want me back, so you're… telling lies to… to make me leave my… wife…"

"I wish I was," Emily said, her head bowed. "But it's the honest truth. Ask 'er yourself."

"Never would I insult her with such a vile accusation! Christine is no adulteress!"

The other patients in the waiting room were all staring at them now. A mother with a young child rose and ushered her son out of the room.

"You are very generous to maintain such fierce loyalty to your wife," Emily answered carefully. "If only she would do the same for you…"

"I refuse to listen to these lies any more! I won't have it!" He took his hat down from a hook by the door and planted it firmly on his head. "Tell the doctor to send the bill to my estate. Good day, Mademoiselle."

And with that, he slammed the door behind him.

Emily watched him climb into his carriage through the window, ignoring the stares and murmurs of the remaining patients in the waiting room. She stroked her belly absently, smiling through the film of tears that had gathered in her eyes.

Don't you worry, my darling, she thought, directing her thoughts at her unborn son. Your Father is stubborn, but he is not stupid. He can certainly do basic arithmetic, and solid facts will drown out his wishful thinking. That imposter will not be able to maintain her façade for long. Just you wait, darling little one; soon enough, your Mama will replace her as the Countess de Chagny.

A/N: Drama, drama, drama! Can't these guys just get along? ;)

I know you're missing Erik; I'll get to him in the next chapter. So what do you think of this sticky little situation? Emily supporters, I know you're probably feeling really bad for her right about now. Christine supporters are probably seething. What I want to know is whether or not this chapter has changed anyone's position. Do you still support the same pairing, or lack thereof? A new one? Why?

I have to say, it's pretty hysterical when you get on one another's cases through reviews. Just keep the fangs back, alright? I don't need another bloody mess to clean up— Erik's is gonna take enough effort as it is, lol! Love you all!