A/N: Hears the squeals of excitement from the readers… and hides behind the pile of school books and homework piled in front of me. I'm so sorry about the wait on this one… university is getting out of hand before Spring Break. Hopefully it'll get better afterward. Without further adieu, I give you the new chapter.

Thank you reviewers for your patience! Please remember to review!

Chapter 15- Think Of Me

Constance sighed, easing back onto the comfortable chaise lounge in one of the quiet dressing rooms that were now being prepared for new occupants to move into once the final casting was done. The previous day had been a long one with all that had happened from the Chagnys arriving and then the argument with Erik, but she had not prepared for what she would encounter when she arrived home that night. Joséphine was having a dinner party of sorts for the welcoming of her brothers and Christine. Of course, it was only they who were there, but it still added a good amount of stress onto Constance's shoulders having to deal with Philippe and his rather annoying brother.

If there was one good thing that had come from the whole ordeal, though, it was the realization that Christine was not as accepting as Constance had thought initially, nor as naïve, though it was obvious that she still had much to learn in matters of the world. And while it was wonderful to actually get to know Christine a bit better, that also meant Raoul was in the middle of the conversation, as though he was prepared to jump in without a thought to quell any conversation leaning toward the Opera Ghost or the past in the Opera. After that weekend in the country and her asking Christine for the story of the Opera Ghost, Raoul always seemed wary of her, as though she would put unfathomable ideas into Christine's head. And really, she could not say she had not put any of those 'ideas' into Christine's head, because inviting her back to audition was exactly that.

However, Constance felt secure enough in the realization that Christine had always wanted to come back, Raoul just had never let her until now.

And more so now, than the weekend in the country, Constance noticed how Raoul doted over his wife- actually, more like smothered his wife, doing everything in his power to make her happy, almost as though he were 'buying' her love. It honestly seemed like he felt unworthy to be with her, or at least he felt that he had to give her anything her heart ever desired so that she did not leave him. Constance could guess, though, that Christine would not leave Raoul… even if her soul was unknowingly indentured to another.

Christine may not have realized it, but Constance had a clear sense that the young Vicomtess regularly thought about another man, and not about the man she had married. Wistful sigh after wistful sigh, Constance looked at her, wondering why, if she had been given a choice and had really loved Erik, she would have left with Raoul when Erik let them 'escape' his lair. Of course, Christine was also in love with Raoul, that much was evident, but it was not as deep or soul binding as what the shared gift of music had supposedly done to Christine and Erik.

Why then, if her heart was telling her something different, did she go with Raoul? If Raoul was not what she really wanted, what was the point in staying with 'safe' choice?

It was decisions like these that made Constance dislike people. She believed that if you truly wanted something, you should have it as long as it was not harming anyone else. If Christine considered staying with the Phantom to be a thing that would 'harm' Raoul, then by Constance's thinking, Christine had done the right thing. But then Constance only had to look at the grief and pain in Erik's eyes each time she mentioned the Chagnys and see that Erik was hurt much more than Raoul would have ever been hurt.

Raoul had the luxury, if Christine had not fled the Opera with him, to find another suitable wife more up to his social standing (and Philippe's liking)… even someone he could have loved more. But Erik could not have that luxury… it appeared he never had that sort of luxury in any of his personal dealings. Christine, his one true love, had left him and he would not find another… his only choice was to live in some dark, dank cellar somewhere in the Opera, alone, and in the horrible misery of never being loved.

Constance paused those thoughts for a moment, wondering where they had come from. Was she really rationalizing this? Was she really thinking that Christine had made the wrong decisions? And did she really believe that Christine was supposed to be with Erik, and not with Raoul? Was she feeling sorry for the masked man who had been less than polite to her the previous day… and all the other days they had spoken for that matter?

"Connie, are you in here?"

She jumped up quickly from her lounge, having not expected anyone to come looking for her, or for them to sneak up to the room in such a way that she had not heard them. Or, perhaps, she had just been so into her thoughts of the previous evening, that she could not have possibly heard the approach. She called out feebly, "Yes, I'm in here."

Olivier peeked around the door, and then stepped inside the room, "What are you doing in a room so far back here?"

"Because it was the only place I could guarantee peace and quiet," she remarked wryly, looking at him.

He chuckled, "I am sorry I interrupted you then."

"What is it Olivier?" she questioned, walking around the lounge as her heart beat slowly turned back to normal.

"Nothing," he said with a soft smile. "I just came to check up on my sister, and to see how the auditions are going."

"The auditions are going well… we found a lovely Spanish baritone," Constance replied.

"Perhaps he will help you with your Spanish," Olivier jested, stepping out of the way of her swatting hand.

Really, it was not her fault that she found it hard to wrap her tongue around the Spanish language. It was just an impediment she lived with, and one that her mother had laughed freely at every time they would sit down for lessons. Constance sighed and met his eyes, "And there are still no appearances of anything even resembling a ghost around here."

Olivier was silent for a few moments and sighed heavily, "Am I that easy to see through?"

"Philippe and Raoul have you worried over nothing, Olivier," Constance said. "The Opera Ghost no longer resides here in the Opera. Nothing has happened to suggest it, so I believe we should just leave it at that. Frankly, I am quite angry that none of you will trust my judgment."

"But you've known your fair share of problems because you have told no one about it, thinking you could handle it yourself," Olivier replied. "Lest we forget what happened before I came to England to see how you were after William passed on."

Constance sighed heavily and shook her head, "That was not like this and all this talk of the Opera Ghost."

He crossed his arms over his chest as he rested against the doorframe, "Constance, I will not worry about the Opera Ghost if you look me in the eyes and tell me that you will let me know if anything happens."

She nodded and walked over to him, stopping in front of him to place her hands on his arms. Constance met his eyes, "Olivier, I promise."

As soon as she said that, though, she turned away from him, unable to look into his eyes. She hated lying to anyone she loved, especially her brother who had taken her in and given her the care she needed when she returned from England, but she had to do this. If she did not have the Opera House to run, she did not know how she could possibly find anything else more interesting to occupy her time.

Constance sighed and glanced back at him, "Besides, it appears Philippe will be watching too closely over me anyway, so you will need not worry about me."

"Speaking of which," Olivier began, looking closely at her. "I thought you had already decided that you were not going to allow Philippe such an easy time?"

"You said to give him a chance," Constance replied with a half-smile, walking to the mirror in the room and readjusted a few of the pins in her black hair. How did she tell him that she was the one that had invited it on herself when she was trying to talk Philippe out of his 'irrational' thoughts on the Phantom?

He chuckled and rolled his eyes, "You know what I meant… if he is moving too quickly, tell me now and I will tell him to go more slowly. He's been without for so long…"

"You mean to say that he has not properly courted someone in awhile?" she raised a curious brow, looking back at him by his reflection in the mirror. "I doubt that the Comte has kept away from his female companions. I heard something about one of the ballerinas here when he was Patron?"

"La Sorelli," he smiled fondly as though remembering a time better spent with the dancer.

Constance turned to him and raised his brows in question, "I would hate to think that you two did anything together…"

"No," Olivier chuckled. "I'm only recalling one of Philippe's more… colorful… stories."

"Men," she said flatly and shook her head in dismay. While it was a common thing for a man to have a mistress on the side, she really found that another thing in the double standard between men and women she did not like.

Olivier smiled brightly as she closed the distance between them, "Do you have time to have luncheon with the Chagnys and me?"

"I don't think it would be good to be seen cavorting with the Chagnys, especially Christine, before her audition. The last thing I want is for someone to accuse her of getting cast because of familial connections," Constance replied.

"She asked that you would come," Olivier said.

"Then tell her politely that we shall dine together tomorrow, after the company list is posted," she said and looked at Olivier. "It's not that hard to tell the woman you are sorry."

He scoffed and chuckled, "Then can I bring you anything from the Opera café? You did not have breakfast this morning, and since this is your time for luncheon and you are again not eating anything…"

Constance chuckled, "The maid tightened my corset very tightly today… I can barely breathe as it is… much less eat."

"But you have to eat something," he said.

"You're too overprotective of me," she replied, motioning for him to step out of the room. She followed him and closed the door behind her. "I'll be fine."

Olivier looked at her sternly, "Constance…"

"Stop treating me like a child, Olivier," she snapped at him. "I am fine, trust me."

He pursed his lips together out of vexation for her comment and grumbled lowly, shaking his head and offering his arm to her, "Where are you going to go for the next half hour then if you will not eat?"

"I do not know," she said, turning to look at him. "But I think I will go to my office and look over a few things."

Olivier nodded and moved her in that direction. Soon they were in front of the closed door and she turned to look at him, not having to say anything as he nodded his head and backed away from her. He sighed, "I'll expect you to eat a great deal at supper then."

She grunted in the most unfeminine manner, and watched him walk away before turning back to place her hand on the door handle. Turning it slowly, she walked into the room and shut the door, locking everyone and everything out that could possibly annoy her. Perhaps she was not cut out to work in the Opera if the small, insignificant annoyances did so much to anger her. Or perhaps it was just Olivier being too protective of her…

Constance shook her head and let out another long sigh, which was followed by a, "I take it your day is not going well."

She jumped and swirled around, finding the mysterious being sitting in the high-backed chair behind the desk. Glaring at him, she said in a very icy tone, "Why must you do that?"

He shrugged his shoulders with a grace and elegance only he seemed to muster in such a simple movement. Sitting back in the seat, he rested his elbows on the high armrests, placing his hands together and against his lips so that it appeared he as though he were praying. Though it seemed more sinister that anything else. She held his unfeeling stare for a few moments, and then said, "What do you need? I thought you said you would be here after the auditions, unless I am mistaken."

"I did say that," he replied, watching her closely as she moved toward the large desk. If she did not know any better, she would say almost admiring her, but she did know better than that. He only looked at her to try to read into her movements and actions to get a better feeling of how he could appropriately manipulate her to his liking.

"And you are here," she pointed out. "Sitting at my desk, with the door unlocked so that anyone could walk in on you. Brilliant."

He gave her an acerbic look, "You think I am that foolish?"

"I don't know if I should think it or not," she said. "All I know about you is that you are overbearing and impolite."

"That's not what it says in here," he replied, lifting up the leather-bound book, filled with her scrawling handwriting. He set the book back down and let out a short sigh, "Shall I read some of it?"

"No," she said breathlessly, not believing that he had actually found her writing journal and had so easily opened it up without asking first to read what was inside.

He licked his lips, " 'Christine de Chagny tells this most startling tale as she gazes longingly out the window into blackened night as though she is thinking of this man, the one who at the very last moment, realized his conscience and let her go to live a life free of darkness. It would seem that the only time she shows a great deal of emotion is when she thinks of or mentions this mysterious masked man, once unmasked for all to see. Perhaps he was not as horrible as Christine or Raoul claim him to be…' Shall I continue?"

"Stop reading," she said flatly, walking over to him and reaching for the book. But he was very quick and pulled it away from her as he stood, holding it just high enough over her head with the aide of his tall frame so that she could not reach it.

"But I would like to continue," he said. "You paint me as a very different man than what you verbalize about me."

"I suppose you have not read the latest entries then," she replied bitterly, reaching for it again.

He shook his head, and gave her a smile that made her skin crawl, "Do you know what this tells me, dear Madame?"

"What?" she questioned, not really wanting to know the answer.

"That you say one thing and do the exact opposite," he answered, as though he were chastising her. "That is not a very good quality in anyone."

Constance reached for the book again, and he lowered it just enough so that she could get a good grasp on it. She tried to pull it away, but he kept it firmly in his grasp as well. She met his eyes, "Do not think I won't hurt you if you continue with this nonsense. Those are for my eyes alone, and you are completely despicable for even looking through my things and reading them."

"Hurt me how?" he said derisively, giving her a challenging look, but held her gaze.

She did not answer and quickly brought her right hand up to slap him, but she found that it did not touch skin at all. Surprised that she had not made impact with his cheek, Constance did a double take, looking at her hand to learn the reason why she had been stopped or her hand had not obeyed her mind. There was his left gloved hand, circled about her tiny wrist, gripping quite painfully. How had he done that? She moved quickly to slap him. Had he preconceived what she was going to do? Had he been able to tell in her eyes? What enabled him to move that unbelievably quickly, like a striking snake?

"Let go of my wrist, you're hurting me," she spit out.

He loosened his iron-tight grip about her wrist, but still held it firmly enough that she could not pull it away, "You will see, Madame, that you are no match for me."

"Shall I call for the Chagnys?" she questioned, both locking their gazes in one more epic battle of wills.

He did not remove his hand from her, "Be my guest… for I know you will say one thing and do the opposite, Madame."

Loosening his grip on the book, she pulled it away and quickly turned from him as he let go of her wrist. She slipped the book beneath her arm and used her left hand to massage the skin that would probably yield bruises she would have to explain later. He let out a grunt of indignation, and turned in a flurry of black cloak for his exit, but stopped suddenly.

"What?" she called out.

"I do like the style in which you write, though it is often very macabre," he remarked. "Perhaps we are alike if our thoughts are of those things."

And he left her again, to the quiet of the room, the old clock on the wall the only sound audible, besides her angry, heavy breathing.