Disclaimer: I think I'll ignore this one. I seriously doubt that anyone with the copyrights on The Phantom of the Opera would find it worth while to scour fanfiction sights to see who is taking credit for what they don't deserve, or trying to get anything out of me, for that matter.

A/N: Wow, it's amazing what you can get done when you don't have school to waste your time. Of course, I'm getting to the really good parts, so that might have something to do with it, but I haven't spent so much time writing on things I like in a long time.

Chapter Twenty-Three: Productive Confrontations

Erik

Erik was caught in the grips of sensations unlike any he had ever before experienced. Everything he had ever dreamt of could be found in this moment. Passion, longing, wonder, hope, faith, and, most importantly, love were all bound up in this single, heart-stopping kiss.

He probably would have been thinking these very thoughts if he had still possessed the ability to think at all, which was not so. From the moment is eager lips had touched her soft, rosy ones, he had lost all cognitive functions. His brain had shut down everything but his senses, which were currently working like crazy. His body was trying to follow the last commands that his mind had given them: hold on and kiss her with all your might. His body, particularly his mouth, was only too happy to oblige.

Erik managed to put off the inevitable by gasping for air at regular intervals, but eventually the need for air became greater than his compulsion to go on like that forever, so he pulled away, panting. His eyes were glassy and unfocused, as Danielle's face came into view. Apparently, she had been as reluctant to break contact as he had been. She, too, looked distracted and disappointed. She also seemed a little embarrassed when she finally met his perplexed gaze.

"I hadn't really planned to do that," Erik confessed sheepishly. "It just happened." He was vaguely aware that this sounded trite, but he felt, in his confused mind, that he needed to explain why he had been so forward. After all, you just don't go around kissing your vocal students…or do you? He couldn't really remember the correct protocol for this situation, if there ever was one to begin with. Everything seemed so far away now, as if his whole outlook on life had altered drastically.

Danielle laughed a silvery laugh that almost made "it" happen again, but Erik was able to control the impulse this time. "I love you, Erik," she repeated, leaning into his chest. Somehow, he hadn't noticed that neither of them had let go yet.

"Now what do we do," Erik asked, bewildered at the turn of events.

"I suppose we have to tell people that we're going to be married," Danielle replied dreamily. "Marie, Nadir, the managers, my father…What will he say, I wonder," she questioned thin air. "Probably something along the lines of, 'You're my daughter, and you'll go to whom I please.'"

"We don't have to tell him until after the wedding, do we," Erik suggested hopefully.

"I'm afraid we should," she muttered. "It'll only be worse for us, if we don't tell him, or rather, I tell him."

"Why you, my love," Erik asked, wary of letting her see her father alone. It's not that he feared she would change her mind under her father's influence…actually, that's exactly what he was afraid of. He didn't want to take chances.

"I need to face him alone, Erik," Danielle stated with determination. "I have to finally shake him off myself."

"But, Danielle," he interjected.

"This is something I need to do. I promise, nothing will stand in our way," Danielle assured him, reading his mind perfectly. "I'll still be yours no matter what he says. I've waited for you to ask me to marry you for too long to give up on you, now that I have you in my clutches," she teased. Then Danielle became much more serious. "God meant me to meet you; I've known it from the start. He wants me to marry you. I have to confront my father on my own if that can happen. I must earn you. You don't want a coward for a wife, do you," she asked, again taking on her taunting attitude.

"Alright, Danae" Erik consented, "but I don't have to like it."

Danielle

The next day, Danielle sent word to her father to meet her at the opera. An hour later found her awaiting him in her dressing-room, pensively staring into space. She was thinking of all those time when Jean D'Artoi had ground her under his heel, silently steeling herself to come out the victor in the upcoming battle. This would be the most important battle of all. Whoever won this would win the war. If she held firm, she would be free of her father's outrageous demands forever. If she didn't, she would be his slave forever, always carrying out his commands, no matter how heinous. She could not fail; hers wasn't the only future that would be decided by her resistance that day. She had to stay strong for Erik. Besides, she couldn't survive if she lost him, especially if it had been because she was unwilling to sacrifice for him.

Jean D'Artoi pushed open the door, confident that his daughter had, at last, given into his authority as her father. The pale cast of her skin was enough to reassure his doubts. She was obviously thinking of the fate that she would succumb to after this talk. He could almost feel his now empty pockets bulging with Latrec's money.

Danielle stood at his rather high-spirited entrance. She silently gestured to the sofa, offering him a seat, while she continued to stand. The soprano cleared her throat, reluctant to begin, but fully conscious of the necessity.

God give me strength, Danielle mutely prayed.

"Father," she said by way of a preamble, "I have asked you to come here because there is an issue important to us both that has yet to be resolved."

"I am aware of that," he answered smugly. "I trust that everything will be taken care of today?"

"Quite," Danielle said noncommittally. "The issue in question is, of course, Mathieu Latrec. He has, for some time, made it known that he is partial to me, but I have not returned his partiality in the least."

"Well, that isn't really required of you," Jean replied. "Latrec doesn't care if you like him, only that you please him when he wants you."

Danielle paled even more if that were possible. The conversation was going in the most mortifying of directions. She had to get the discussion back on track. Besides, she could almost sense Erik's displeasure. Her father was not likely to come out of this room uninjured if his suggestive talk continued. Not that she would have minded, but she didn't want Erik discovered.

"I don't doubt his apathy, but I should tell you that I have no intention of 'pleasing' Latrec as you so perversely term it," Danielle told him, her voice like ice.

Danielle folded her arms over her chest, and D'Artoi finally noticed the diamond glinting on her left hand.

Spluttering with outrage, he shouted, "What have you done, Danielle?" He pointed to her hand. "Who dared to give you that, and how did you dare accept it?"

Danielle glanced down at the ring Erik had put on her finger. "I have decided to marry, father," she answered with a dignified raise of her eyebrows, as if wondering what gave him the right to question her. "As to the husband I have chosen, he is not your concern."

D'Artoi got up from his seat on the sofa, fuming. "You'll do as I say, you little wench," he yelled, grabbing her left arm. "You'll give that poor excuse for a diamond back to your poor excuse for a man, and you'll get your butt to Latrec's, begging him to take you in."

"I'm afraid, father," Danielle hissed, as she pulled herself free of his grasp, "that you are mistaken. I love the man who gave me this ring, and I won't part with it, or him."

"Then your husband," he spat the word, "will just have to be content to share you with another man."

"It isn't likely that he'll have to," Danielle declared in frigid tones. "No one could persuade me to betray him."

"I wonder what your poor, unfortunate mother would say if she knew you were refusing to obey your father," he asked. "Do you think she would be pleased that you value some stranger over your own family?"

"He is no stranger," Danielle exclaimed. "He has been better to me than you or Luc ever have."

"Oh, I'm sure," Jean shot at her, obviously implying something immoral, "but he isn't your blood. You don't owe him anything."

"Yes, I do! I owe him my unwavering loyalty."

"Whatever he's done to deserve your loyalty, it can't be as just as our claim on you," he whispered dangerously. "He didn't lose his wife or mother because of you."

He had gone too far, and he knew it. Her resolve was weakening. His argument did have its strong points, she had to admit. She had cost her family a vital part of it, a part that could never be replaced.

"Do you think that I was this cold-hearted when Adele was still alive," Jean continued. "I used to be very warm. That's why she married me in the first place. No, it was only after her tragic death that I became what I am. You made me this way."

For a moment, Danielle's reeling mind considered this new point of view. Yes, she had made him this way. If she had never been born, he wouldn't be so cruel. She had twisted his soul, damaged his heart forever. It was her fault. All her fault.

"No," she screamed, shaking herself out of the mind set that had almost made her give up. "I'm not responsible for you. You could have chosen to love me, but you chose to hate me. I won't pay anymore for what I couldn't control."

"You were always the most bothersome, little pipsqueak," D'Atroi sneered. "I told the midwife to let you die and save Adele. She would have, too, but Adele wouldn't have it. The midwife offered Adele her life, but she decided to give you yours."

Danielle felt as if she had been punched in the stomach. This was a brand new revelation that had never occurred to her.

"She knew she would die," Danielle whispered frantically. "She knew she could have been saved?"

"She did," he answered gruffly. "Now do you see what you owe her?"

But Danielle wasn't paying him any attention. Her mind was working at a furious pace. Her mother had chosen death. She could have chosen to live, but she chose to die. For me, Danielle thought to herself, everything finally becoming clear, as if dawn had broken after a long, dark night.

"I don't owe you anything," she said fiercely. "My mother sacrificed herself. It isn't my fault. She chose to die so I could live, not so you could make me your slave," Danielle spat venomously. "She wanted me to be happy. I will not give up my happiness so you can put a few more francs in your pocket. If you want more money, you'll just have to tell Luc to find work because you'll get nothing more from me. Get out. I don't ever want to see either of you again," she yelled, pointing toward the door.

When D'Artoi didn't budge, Danielle ran to the door and started calling for help. Men came running from all over the building. Even the managers came thundering down the halls when they learned that the commotion was coming from the prima donna's dressing-room.

All she had to do was ask that her father be removed from the premises, and that neither he, nor her brother, were ever to be admitted to the Populaire again. They were practically falling all over themselves to do as she requested. They didn't make any promises with regards to Mathieu Latrec, but she felt certain that he could be handled easily if it came to that.

Danielle was sure of one thing: she was finally free. Free from her father and brother, and free from the guilt that had been hanging over her head for years. Danielle was, for perhaps the first time, able to live with no sense of shame. She had done what she knew was right, and she had been richly rewarded for it. She had Erik.

Within days, all of Paris learned of her ordeal, how she had stood up against corruption that her own father tried to foist upon her. It made a sensational story, and people cheered her even more for her virtue. But who, the papers all asked, was the fortunate man who had won her heart?

That question was settled very soon. When Danielle requested a few weeks away from the opera for her honeymoon, the managers were delighted to hear that she was going to marry the mysterious composer, Octavian Gautier. They went into ecstasies when she mentioned casually that he had written an opera especially for her. Firmin and Andre assured her quite enthusiastically that they would give her the whole run of the next production off, and pay her a small pittance to boot. She would, of course, be expected to sing in a concert they had scheduled during the run, but that would give her the perfect chance to display some of the music her fiancé had written for her. They were deliriously happy for her (but mostly for themselves, though they didn't say so).

Once Danielle had left them with that information to chew on, the news of her betrothal to Octavian Gautier was leaked to the press. Shortly afterward all of the Parisian elite were celebrating such an artful union. They would continue to hear Danielle's glorious voice and Gautier's masterpieces, but coupled with harmonious perfection. Gautier's music, designed for Danielle, would show off her talent famously, while she would, no doubt, prove to be an inspiring muse for her husband. Yes, it was a happy day for the world of music.

A/N: This is a short chapter, but at least it is chock-full of fluffy E/OW goodness. There is only a chapter or two left, so stay with me for a little while longer.