Every day felt like a millennia to Christine as she was sabotaged with plans for the wedding. Wasn't it the bride who was supposed to take delight in arrangements for the supposed most magical day of her life? Well, in this case, Raoul was the one who eagerly made appointments for his fiancé. Might as well he be the one walking down the aisle in a white dress; he simply couldn't be stopped. If it hadn't been for Raoul and her own personal assistants, there wouldn't even be a date set. But, ah, without doubt, the vicomte had appointed July 25 as the day of the nuptials. Much to Christine's dismay, that was a mere four months away. Four months! Hardly time enough to find an excuse not to go through with the marriage. But Christine had already realized she could never find an excuse. She would play the role of wife to the smitten Raoul for the rest of her days, while her angel was held prisoner by his own chains in the catacombs of the Populaire. The thought sickened her; tortured her. She couldn't bear to think of him hunched over his organ, pounding out some grief-stricken ode to their doomed love. But, unfortunately for her, it was constantly surfacing in her mind.

A few days after her ill-fated attempt at song-writing, Christine was in the drawing room, flipping absentmindedly through a book of wedding dresses. She wasn't really attempting to choose a gown; rather, she was doing it to appease Raoul. He was out today, at a business meeting at his public office. Political affairs. Droll stuff. It was a rainy day once again, the sky slate-gray with overbearing clouds. Christine had half a mind to go outside and run around and hope to drown in the torrential downpour, but she decided it was more comfortable curled up in this armchair. She had just finished going through the book a third time when the crystal chime of the doorbell resounded through the manor. She knew by now to make no attempt to answer it. The manservant would not only do that but also introduce the guest to the vicomtess-to-be. Seeing how it was probably just some stuffy old relative of Raoul's come to visit the newest addition to the family (as it so often was), Christine concluded that she probably wouldn't bother even if there wasn't a manservant there to greet the visitor. She was quite surprised when the butler appeared through the doorway followed by a petite, fine-featured blonde whose face Christine knew quite well.

"Mademoiselle Megan Giry," the butler stated. He slipped out of the room as the two women embraced. "Meg!" Christine cried. "Oh, Meg! You've come to see me!" She motioned for the ballerina to have a seat on the divan. She herself returned to the plush armchair. She smiled happily, her first sincere smile in two months. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Meg returned the smile. She was the same as ever, willowy and slender, though perhaps a little – the tiniest bit –weary in appearance. Christine knew that she and her mother had lost their only home in the fire and could no longer rely on the opera to care for them. Madame Giry had taken a job at a local dance studio as an instructor and Meg was now a serveuse at some café. It was hardly a job befitting her true destiny as a ballerina, but until the Populaire was reconstructed, it was the only way they could manage. Christine and Raoul had at first offered them a home at the deChagny manor, but the mother and daughter had politely refused. Every day Christine worried about them, but it seemed her thoughts were misplaced: Meg was well-groomed and was wearing a nice satin dress trimmed with lace. Christine's heart lightened at the sight of her. "So, Meg, how are you?"

"I'm fine, cher Christine. A little tired, but faring well. But, Christine," She leaned in towards the brunette as though telling a secret. "How are you?"

It was the way she had accentuated the last word, along with the concerned expression on her face, that took Christine aback. "I'm fine, Meg. Why shouldn't I be?" Meg shook her head impatiently. "You've lost weight Christine. I saw as soon as I walked in. You just don't seem to look like yourself."

"Why, that's silly, Meg. I'm fine, I assure you." No, I'm not.

"If you say so."

There was a long, contemplative pause, during which the manservant reappeared with two glasses of wine. Each girl took one and he disappeared, leaving them to continue the conversation.

Meg took a long sip of her wine, and her brow furrowed apprehensively. She placed the goblet on the cherrywood table beside the divan. "Christine," she said at last. "I've come here to tell you something."

A thousand possibilities flooded the bride-to-be's mind, the most prominent one being that Meg, Madame Giry, and the Opera Ghost had formed a plan to help her escape the deChagny manor and the insolent vicomte. "Yes, Meg?"

The blonde drew a deep breath. "Christine, this news…it will effect you the most, I'm sure. You were, after all…" Her voice trailed off. She took another small sip of wine and continued. "Um...my mother. She has been worried about the Phantom of the Opera ever since the incident – You know how she always seemed to be close to him…it seemed" – Christine's heart seized up. The Phantom? – "And last evening, she went to the Opera House…well, at least, the beginnings of the reconstruction, and managed to find an old passageway that had not been touched by the fire or the construction workers. She entered it, and was able to find her way down to his lair."

Christine couldn't bear it. She interrupted her friend anxiously. "Was he there, Meg? Was he?"

Meg studied her friend's face, concern etched across her own. "…He was, Christine. But, Christine…he was ill, very ill. Mother says she found him at the organ. He was so weak he could barely sit up. Mother went to him, and he…um…he told her to tell you that he was sorry. So sorry."

Christine felt a horrible, crushing feeling in her chest. "What else, Meg?" she whispered.

"He said that he loved you."

"What else, Meg? Where is he now?"

Christine already knew the answer. But it took hearing it spoken as the truth for her to believe it.

"He died, Christine. Mother said he died almost immediately afterwards."

The glass of wine fell from Christine's hands, crashing upon the wooden floor. The young woman followed it, sinking to her knees. Meg sprang to her feet. "Christine? Christine!"

Tears were falling fast and hard from her gray eyes. Her arms wrapped around herself, holding her shaking body. Sobs racked through her soul; agony such as she had never felt was consuming her. He was dead. She was the reason why, she knew it. Instead of saving him from solitude and misery, she had rather given him all reason to lose the will to live. He would never come back for her now. She could never go back to him. Christine's mind swam in shock and despondency until raw emotion overwhelmed her and the world went black.

A/N: Well, not much to say here. Just wanted to tell you that there is going to be another chapter, so stay tuned!