A/N: And now…the fun part! Let the games begin! Sorry about the horrible cliffhangers with which I've been leaving you, my wonderful readers. …They're just so much fun!

P.S: I was in the mood for drawing, so I whipped up two scenes from my phic…I have no idea why; I suppose I was just avoiding the dreaded summer work I still have to start. Anyways, for anyone who has a bit of time on their hands, the links are in my profile.

P.P.S: Again, much thanks to Julie, my Angel of Phiction! -Hums "Angel of Music" a bit off-key-

Deep in my heart I'm concealing
Things that I'm longing to say.
Scared to confess what I'm feeling,
Frightened you'll slip away…

You Must Love Me, Andrew Lloyd Webber's Evita

THE END OF INNOCENCE

The party was beginning to wane; guests left the hotel in large groups, shrieking in bouts of intoxicated laughter, while others stayed behind in clusters of couples, lowering themselves onto couches and large chairs or sneaking up into the apartments on the second floor. Roslin stepped carefully over a few unconscious bodies as they lay in drunken heaps on the floor, their clothes soiled with alcohol and perspiration. She caught sight of Madame on the other side of the room engaged in playful, vivacious conversation.

A quick jerk of her head was all Roslin needed to catch her attention. With a brusque wave of her hand, Madame bluntly ended her discussion with the young gypsy man in front of her and pushed her way towards Roslin, her eyes darting around at her exiting visitors.

"I saw you speaking with our masked friend, Madame," Roslin muttered nonchalantly as they slid into their seats, sitting on opposite ends of the small circular table.

A small smirk crept its way onto Madame's lips, and she placed a slightly pudgy hand beneath her chin. "Is that so startling to you, my dear? He's one of our most loyal customers, and…"

"He hurried off towards the east wing," Roslin interrupted, watching Madame from over the dipping orange flame of the candlestick that rested on the table between them; the glow reflected in her gleaming eyes. "Did you direct him to the young Vicomtess?"

The grin on Madame's mouth widened, and she sat back in her chair complacently. "Perhaps. Did you arrange their little 'chance meeting' on the dance floor this evening?"

Roslin's black eyes glittered in the shadows. "Perhaps."

"And yet you seem surprised that he pursued her to her quarters." Madame's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "What do you know that I don't, Roslin? I can only stand secrets if I'm included in them."

A moment of contemplative silence, then: "Surely you've heard the whispers, Madame." Roslin smiled secretly to herself as Madame cocked an eyebrow. She was quite sure this was the most painful torture she could administer upon the meddlesome manager. "You make it your business to know everything about everyone, especially when it involves that man…so how is it that you don't know what he cries out every night?" Madame leaned forwards impatiently, and Roslin savored her temporary dominance in the conversation. "Perhaps I shouldn't tell you; he may possibly appreciate me keeping it quiet for him. He might even reward me in some way…" she finished thoughtfully.

Frowning, Madame rested her head on the back of her seat once more. "If that's how you want to play the game, Roslin, then I suppose I won't share my information about the Vicomtess with you." She examined her with the indolent gaze of a cat, the eagerness vanishing from her face, replaced with a smug expression of supremacy. "An eye for an eye, my dear."

Roslin pursed her lips, irritated by this comeback. She paused for a moment, and then inclined her head, silently accepting her relinquished hold on Madame. "He calls out her name."

Madame furrowed her brow. "What?"

"At night, whenever he takes a girl to his room…he calls out Christine's name. During the climax, right at the end…" She gave a concluding shrug. "It happens every time." Madame remained silent, rubbing her thumb over her chin. "You really didn't know?"

"If I had, would I have been so eager to extract this information from you?" she snapped. Roslin fell quiet, watching her vigilantly. After a moment, Madame looked up. "How old would you say the Vicomtess is, Roslin?" she asked, tucking a loose curl behind her ear.

Roslin raised her eyebrows, slightly taken aback by the question. She blinked, settling herself more comfortably in her seat. "I don't know…twenty-four, twenty-five…?"

"She's eighteen."

"Eighteen?" Roslin repeated in surprise. She formed a mental picture of the girl in her mind, going over her appearance with studious care. "It's…it's her eyes…they're too…"

"Old…yes, I know," Madame finished. "I noticed it also." She pulled a small flask of whiskey from a hidden pocket and took a swig of it before continuing. Then, as quickly as she had posed her question, she changed the subject. "Roslin, in your own personal opinion, what do you think the connection between the Vicomtess and 'our masked friend' is?" Roslin could tell from her tone that her question was not posed out of mere curiosity; Madame's inquiry was leading up to a point, and they were nearing it.

"Former lovers, I would imagine."

Madame smiled shrewdly. "But apparently she's been a Vicomtess for two years now, meaning she was married when she was sixteen. And to my understanding, she had been courting her now-husband for some time before their marriage." She leaned even closer to Roslin, her voice dropping in pitch. "How many former lovers do you think a girl has before the age of fifteen? And one that could arouse such a reaction from her, at that?"

Roslin frowned thoughtfully. "An affair?" The deepening smirk on Madame's face served as a response. "An affair…" she echoed before turning back to Madame and grinning. "And didn't you mention earlier today that the Vicomte himself is on his way back? Preparing to bring his sick and helpless wife back to their million-franc estate, isn't he?"

Madame nodded. "Due to arrive sometime this evening, later on tonight at the latest." They exchanged a look of eager anticipation. "My dear Roslin, I do believe we're becoming spoiled. A scandal of upper society taking place in my very own hotel…"

"And don't forget about the events this past evening…the way that girl took a swing at him!" Roslin shook her head in disbelief. "Well, you've been in the presence of that man, Madame…striking him across the face is probably the last impulse that would cross your mind."

Sniggering, Madame stood from the table; Roslin followed suit, leaning down to blow out the candle as it dripped deep scarlet wax onto the wooden table. "Yes…" Madame agreed, leering teasingly. "I can think of a number of things you'd like to do to him first."

The hallway was infinitely different than the one to which he was accustomed. Luxurious scarlet carpeting lined polished wooden walls. The wallpaper was not peeling, and the ceiling did not drip. Various portraits hung in straight and well-kept frames, their eyes peering down at him through narrowed gazes, following his back as he continued down the corridor.

Erik found himself standing outside her room as if he had appeared there instantly. He noticed that the door was open a crack and candlelight flickered around the edges. Suddenly, her voice sounded from her bedroom, choked and strained as if she were sobbing.

"Damn him to Hell!"

He stepped inside noiselessly, his cape wrapping itself around his body. Christine sat at her dresser, clothed in a thin pink dressing gown, eyes closed. His foot treaded on a piece of uneven flooring, causing a low creak to resonate through the room. She looked up into her mirror and saw his reflection meeting her eyes in the glass. Standing abruptly, she heard her chair fall to the floor with a crash, followed moments later by silence.

Christine was still for an instant, hesitating under Erik's burning glance, before she bent to pick up her seat. The robe she had tied around her waist fell loose around her shoulder, exposing a bare white breast. His eyes were pulled to her uncovered flesh for just a moment, but he was well aware that Christine had seen the direction of his gaze. He turned his head to the side so that only his glowing white mask was visible, and he shut his eyelids as she fumbled uncoordinatedly with her garments. When he opened his burning golden eyes once more, they were locked securely on Christine's blushing face. His expression was blank and impassive, his lips drawn into a tight line beneath the mask.

"Don't waste your breath damning me to Hell, Madame," he murmured darkly, his eyes burning holes into her skin. Christine stared back at him…she blinked once, twice, then folded her arms over her chest and looked away. Her lack of response stirred a groundless anger within him, and in two strides he crossed both the room and the unspoken barrier between them, took her wrists into the iron grasp of his hands, and glared down at her.

"Considering these past two years, I've become convinced I already died in those cellars beneath the streets of Paris." Christine squeezed her eyes shut against his fiery tone and the soulless hiss in his voice, feeling the heat of his breath scorch the flesh of her cheek. "And now I'm serving out my eternal condemnation here in the pits of Hell on earth."

With a sudden, furious movement, he threw Christine's hands down and turned away from her, arms locked behind his back, taking a few moments to collect himself. When he spoke again, his voice was cool and even, a drastic change that somehow seemed even more frightening than his uncontrollable anger. "And yet here you are, Vicomtess…a guest in Satan's innermost circle." He glanced over his shoulder, smiling sadistically. "In fact, your presence has reinstated my belief in God, for only He could torture me in such a terribly effective way. His sense of humor never ceases to amaze me."

"Please leave," she whispered hoarsely, her trembling hand clutched around the base of her neck. Erik turned to face her, watching as she tried to draw herself up to her full height. "Go!"

He took a few violent steps toward her, throwing his cape behind him furiously. "But I have paid handsomely for your services, my dear. I demand my expectations to be fulfilled."

Christine's eyes widened. "You truly think me a whore, Erik?" she murmured softly. He only gazed back at her wordlessly, mouth agape. "Do you?" she shrieked, putting her hands against his chest and shoving him backwards with all her strength. He took only a few steps away from her, but his eyes never left her face. They stared in silence at each other, when suddenly Christine let out a loud, barking laugh, tossing her head back so that her mane of brown curls bounced eagerly around her shoulders. "That would be wonderfully convenient for you, wouldn't it? How beautifully paradoxical for me to be caught in the grip of this harsh world…hanging from a noose, you might say." Erik remained motionless, staring at her through narrowed eyes, his hands beginning to curl into tight fists as she ranted.

"Yes, strung up by a metaphorical Punjab lasso in the basements of your figurative Opera House. How long do you wish me to dangle in order to satisfy your lust for revenge?"

Erik was breathing heavily through his flared nostrils, watching Christine intently with a livid rage she had all but forgotten. He had a thousand, a million words to say to her, each filled with biting, sarcastic fury ready on the tip of his tongue, but as he stared into her wide, moonlike eyes, turned bloodshot with unshed tears, he heard himself say, "That isn't fair…"

The silence in the room was unnerving as they gazed at each other, barely breathing, made speechless by his three simple words. All at once Erik knew the entire charade was a mistake…a horrible, ill-conceived mistake. Taking her by the hand, tasting her skin against his lips, bringing her into his arms, following her upstairs to her room…what a pathetic, miserable fool he had been! He stared at Christine with glassy, wild eyes before swinging around and hurrying for the door, his cloak fluttering madly behind him.

Erik had just reached out and touched the doorknob when her fingers closed around the bulk of his arm. He did not turn to face her; instead, he shut his eyes and prayed silently to a God whose existence he had denied for his entire life…prayed that he could just melt into the shadows as he had done so many times at the Opera House. He wished himself invisible or hidden or dead, but when she spoke, he knew his pleas had been in vain.

"Wait. Just…wait."

Without looking into her eyes, he glanced down at her small white fingers, wrapped so securely around his skin. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he glared down at her hand, trying desperately to hate it with every fiber of his strength. "I don't want your pity," he hissed. Damning himself for his own contemptible weakness, he turned around slowly to gaze down into her dark irises. "All I want is to be free of you, as you are so clearly free of me."

A bolt of lightning interrupted what would have been a moment of absolute stillness, followed seconds later by a crash of thunder. "Free of you?" she repeated softly, disbelief radiating from her glassy eyes. "Free of you? My God, Erik… Your voice, it has never left my mind!" Her chest heaved beneath the emotion that threatened to overflow. "I have had not a single instant of peace. I have heard you there, singing to me, haunting me…" Her voice heightened into an octave of near-hysterics, and she released his arm.

He turned back to her, eyes narrowed. "Yes, I suppose these past two years have been horribly draining for you. How utterly egotistical of me…" he murmured facetiously, eyebrow cocked. "I can imagine how terrible the life of a Vicomtess must be, married to your true love, having everything delivered to you on a silver platter." A tear trickled down her cheek, but her eyes began to develop an angry glint. "Do not treat me like a fool, my dear. You know as well as anyone the consequences of such a blunder."

"But you have not had to live with the burden of guilt for two years, Erik!" she cried desperately. "I will never pretend to know what horrors you have faced in your wretched lifetime, but I will not stand for my own remorse to be mocked as if it means nothing!"

Erik paused with his hand wrapped around the doorknob. "Guilt?" he repeated softly, his voice edged with a questioning uncertainty. "You regret the decision you made?"

Christine hugged her arms to her chest, looking away from his inquiring stare. "I love my husband very much, Erik. Very much. He…he is the most kind, understanding man I know."

He blinked. "But do you regret your choice?" She did not reply, and his jaw clenched tightly. With a sudden, furious growl, he took her by the shoulders and shoved her against the wall, her wrists pinned by the strength of his grasp. "Stop toying with me, Christine!" he snarled. "Do…you…regret it?" When she still remained silent, he took her hands in his own, feeling her fragile bones scrape against each other. A low grunt sounded from deep within him as he pulled apart the first few buttons of his thin dress shirt with one hand and pushed her fingers savagely to his chest, pressing her palm against his flesh. Christine squirmed frantically against him, unable to break the connection of their heated glance.

"Do you feel that? Do you?" he hissed darkly, her hand slipping across his hardened skin. She became still, and moments later, she felt the pulsing of his heart beneath her fingertips.

"Yes…" she whispered faintly, gazing at her hand clenched securely in his powerful grip.

Erik stared down at her expressionlessly, mouth drawn into a tight line beneath his mask. After a minute, he dropped his head, eyes closed in the abandonment of his fury. "It won't stop," he murmured softly. "I've tried and tried, but God damn this beating heart…it won't stop." He drew a deep, tremulous breath, releasing her hand from his grasp. It took him a few moments to realize that her fingers had not moved; they still rested gingerly upon his chest.

Christine opened her mouth to speak, but after an instant of indecision, decided against it. She stood before him, her back pressed against the wall, and Erik could not recall a time she had appeared so defenseless, so utterly vulnerable and exposed. She looked up at him with the frightened glance of a child, the overwhelming darkness of the room causing her eyes to take on an almost blackish tint. Erik's gaze traveled down her face, melting effortlessly over her flawless, pearl-like skin, until his eyes rested on her quivering mouth.

He had not remembered her lips looking so intensely red. They gleamed seductively in the night, glistening in the moonlight that streamed through the open window. Erik stared, mouth open slightly, his arms set squarely against the wall on either side of her shoulders.

Her hand still sat upon his chest, his heartbeat coursing through her body, infused in her breath.

Erik swallowed once and, inhaling deeply, leaned down towards her face. When they were a mere inch apart, he paused, and they stared at each other through the shadows, their breaths short and uneven. Then he lowered his mouth to hers, claiming her lips as his own.