Author's Note: I don't know about you guys, but whenever I write for this story, Ramin Karimloo's version of the Phantom is the one that always pops into my mind during Erik's scenes (I see Gerard Butler too, but only, like, 30% of the time). There's a reason why I don't go into too much detail when describing Erik in my story and that's so you guys can imagine whichever version of the Phantom you prefer. Whether you prefer Ramin, like me, or Gerard Butler, Hugh Panaro, or Ben Lewis for all I know, it's perfectly fine! Which got me curious ― which version of Erik do you see in my story?

httplou: We're the same with Ramin! Hmm, foreshadowing? I'm actually a big fan of doing that in my stories, but just keep reading to find out if you're correct! And check out that chapter title; yep!

( eight )

THE EMPEROR

"Miss Rousseau! You missed your cue!" Monsieur Reyer's voice erupted from below. "Get your head out of the clouds!"

"I apologize, maestro! It won't happen again!"

Jovan winced as she watched the chorus members groan before they went back to their previous places. Monsieur Reyer gestured for them to restart the scene before he gave Jovan a scathing glare for good measure. Though her stay at the opera house was nearing half a year, she felt like a newcomer amid the rest of the cast and crew at that very moment. This was her first mistake ever since she arrived and it wounded her so.

For the remainder of the day, Jovan did her best to not let her thoughts stray far from the ongoing rehearsals.

She had been successful until she saw Madame Giry emerge from backstage as she brought a stop to the current dance number. In her hands, she held an envelope bearing an all too familiar red insignia. The wax skull looked as sinister as the last time Jovan saw its maker, over a month ago in the dark chapel. She gave an involuntary shiver when she found her thoughts drifting back to the same person who had caused her to lose her focus and miss her cue earlier.

Everyone immediately stopped whatever they were doing when the ballet headmistress announced her presence and raised the letter for everyone to see. A chorus of complaints and groans broke out among the staff of the Opéra Populaire.

"What is it this time?" someone whined.

"He doesn't run this damn show!" another cried out.

Madame Giry silenced the crowd before she snapped the wax seal and took out the letter.

"My dear mesdames and messieurs," she began to read the letter. "It has come to my attention of several blunders that must be immediately fixed. Our lead soprano, Mademoiselle Gregoire, must make better of her dramatics if she wishes to last this season. Her role calls for an appeal which she seems to lack these days. The dance number in Act Two must be perfected lest the whole opera be affected. Emmy and Maeva are a beat too late, the latter of which must immediately cease her enslavement to alcoholic beverages..."

Madame Giry proceeded to read, one by one, the comments that the Opera Ghost had on almost every single dancer. Even Elea's name was mentioned at one point. Jovan couldn't believe how the Phantom could be so thorough with his observations, something that she could give him credit for.

"...A word for Monsieur Aubert ― the strings of his cello are in dire need of replacement, preferably as soon as possible. The same goes for Madame Renard's violin. The stagehands are far better off sober, and Sacha Gaudin must learn to value his tasks above his... carnal conquests if he wishes to keep his job. A note to Miss Rousseau, to not let her mind wander too far. Your most humble and obedient servant, Opera Ghost."

The second the last word was uttered by the ballet headmistress, protests began to burst from the staff as chaos unfolded below. Lise Gregoire was making a fuss and looked like she was about to cry, in which Monsieur Lefèvre was quick to approach her side, ready to grovel before her if she was somehow thinking of leaving at that very second ― it had been the fourth time that the Opera Ghost had spoken about her acting. The ballet rats were scolding each other and there were those who were trying to defend themselves to no success. Sacha Gaudin looked like he was about to start a fight, and none of Monsieur Reyer's rebukes to calm him were reaching his ears.

"Who does this wretch think he is―" Sacha fumed as he began to scour the rafters as if in search of the Opera Ghost.

"Calm yourself, man!" the lead stagehand, Amir Vacher, scolded him.

"SHOW YOURSELF, YOU BRUTE!"

As for Jovan, she was quick to let the Phantom's comment about her slide. At best, he was simply taunting her in his usual manner. At worst, he was still suspicious of her, but that hardly seemed likely anymore, not after he had apologized. She didn't care either way, but she told herself that this would be the first and last time that her name would be mentioned in any one of his letters.

Jovan closed her eyes as Sacha gave another shout of frustration. This was the first time that he got called out by the Opera Ghost and he was not taking it well. He continued in his tirade as he walked towards the center of the catwalk, screaming for the Opera Ghost to fight him in a match. None of the other stagehands knew whether he was sober or not. The lead stagehand was struggling to hold back the infuriated man even with help from the rest of the stagehands.

If Sacha was wise, he would let this slide and go on as if nothing had happened, given that he would follow the Opera Ghost's wishes. But it didn't look like that that was going to be the case. Jovan opened her eyes. She saw that below, Emmy had began to sob while one ballet rat had stormed off. Monsieur Aubert was complaining about something to Monsieur Reyer. Jovan couldn't remember the last time that they had received a letter from the Phantom that caused this much distress.

Maybe it was just their exhaustion, or maybe they were all just terrible sports.

In the middle of the catwalk, every single one of the stagehands who'd been situated in the rafters had now gathered around Sacha in an attempt to talk some sense in him. Well, everyone except for Jovan ― there was no way that she was going a foot near Sacha. In fact, she always kept a good distance from majority of the stagehands. She was left alone on one side of the rafters to watch the spectacle of havoc until she felt a presence appear next to her.

"Lovely morning, isn't it?" the Phantom breathed out.

"Your definition of 'lovely' is depraved." Jovan gave him a jaded glance and noticed instantly that his face had a sinister detail to it, although she had a feeling that his malice was not directed towards her.

"Just another one of my charming aspects," he coolly answered.

She gave a shake of her head. The gall he had to casually converse with her like this when their last encounter had ended on such a sour note! Not to forget, that last meeting of theirs had happened over a month ago, after which they had absolutely no contact with each other. Jovan wanted to resent him further for it but she just couldn't find it in herself to do so (maybe she was just tired as well). After all, his little interrogation with her was not without a justified reason, and the Phantom seemed to be a person who liked to keep his distance from time to time.

"Miss Rousseau, you must know by now that I trust in you to keep your silence after every time we cross paths. I hope this instance won't be any different."

Jovan's brows furrowed in confusion. "Why would it be?"

"Because of what I am about to do."

Without a second to waste, Erik climbed up to the beams above and vanished out of sight. Jovan searched for him in vain but even in broad daylight, he was nowhere to be found. If there was something he was good at, it had to be blending in with the shadows. Not a second after the thought entered her mind, Jovan finally saw what he meant.

The ropes holding the backdrop came undone and the large canvas came crashing down on the stage.

Jovan found herself rushing near the railings to see what would happen next, her hands wrapping tight around the wood until her knuckles turned white. She saw the backdrop hit an unoccupied space of the stage, but the sound of its impact was enough to pull everyone out of their own dilemmas. A few frightened screams escaped from the ballet corps but other than that, the incident had effectively silenced everyone, including the raging Sacha. She saw that no one was harmed. She gave a sigh of relief.

"Miss Rousseau!" the maestro called for her again, his face red with anger. "For God's sake, woman―"

"Monsieur, I swear on my uncle's grave that I was not at my post!"

Jovan was stunned at the lie that left her lips. She had even mentioned her uncle. The words left a bitter taste in her mouth but it had been on instinct, to protect herself. She couldn't help but feel her temper flare at Erik. Didn't he stop to think of her before he went on to create this mess? Why on Earth would he even do such an unnecessary thing?

Monsieur Reyer simply gave her a funny look before he switched his attention to the fallen backdrop. Monsieur Lefèvre looked like he going to burst into tears at any moment while Madame Giry shot the backdrop a venomous glare. Jovan was glad that Gemma Thorpe had not been around to witness the disaster that had befallen her work ― she would've thrown a fit.

She felt someone softly land at her side, and Jovan gritted her teeth. Erik was quick to obscure himself in the shadows as he returned to his spot by her side. She saw that he looked quite pleased with himself, and Jovan found herself wanting nothing more than to punch the smug look off his face, but she knew that that was a line she could never cross.

"What in the Devil's name was that?" she quietly hissed and, before she could stop herself, she found her hand giving him a shove. He quickly caught her wrist before she could touch him and he glanced at her with a dangerous glint in his eyes, his long fingers wrapped tight around her wrist.

Jovan swallowed as she met his eyes. A fire blazed in them that made the amber and green of his gaze stand out in stark contrast to the white of his mask. His grip on her wrist was iron and it took every ounce of her control to not whimper in pain. Instead, she held his stare, standing her ground against the Opera Ghost.

"To remind everyone of where their places are, and to show them who truly runs this theater. Too often they forget that without my criticisms, they would never have gotten this far," he sneered before his grip on her loosened. The moment it did, she pulled her wrist away and massaged the spot where he had held her.

She tried to keep a snarl from creeping into her voice when she spoke. "They all look like they're going to come apart, Erik."

A smirk pulled at his lips. "Welcome to my kingdom, Miss Rousseau."