Author's Note: Many thanks to all those who read the last chapter of this story, and thank you for all your wonderful reviews. I really appreciate every single one!

I hope you enjoy this chapter, and I would really like to know what you think. I found this quite a difficult chapter to write, for whatever reason, so any feedback would be appreciated.

Thank you so much for your continued support!

Chapter 23: Please Stay

Christine knew Erik would go to his office; it was the one place in the Opera where he would be guaranteed privacy. And however much the thought saddened her, she knew that after being unmasked, his strongest impulse would be to hide.

Reaching the office, she knocked once, softly, and called Erik's name. When there was no answer, she tried the door.

The scene which presented itself made Christine tense with apprehension. Erik was sitting at his desk, his entire upper body rigid in his chair. He had covered the unmasked side of his face with his hand, apparently a reaction to her sudden entrance. Philippe de Chagny leaned casually against the bureau, but his eyes had a cold shrewdness which she did not like.

She went to Erik, bending down to gently take his wrist, encouraging him to remove his hand from his face. He did so with a hopelessness which managed to distress her more than his usual desire to hide. There was something very wrong here. "Erik. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." He did not meet her eyes, but stared at the door instead. "Christine, I think it would be best if you left."

"Oh, no." Christine shook her head, her gaze flicking to the Count. "I'm not leaving until you tell me what's going on."

"Yes, by all means, Miss Daae, please stay." Philippe straightened up and came to stand at Erik's shoulder. "Monsieur Carriere – Erik – and I were simply discussing business. Business which concerns you, my dear."

Christine was on her feet in an instant. "Don't you dare patronise me."

Philippe waved her protest away. "I'm doing nothing of the sort. Quite the contrary. I'm very glad you arrived when you did. I think Erik will appreciate the support."

She turned again to Erik. "What is he talking about?"

Erik stared fixedly at the desk. When he spoke, his voice was a weary monotone. "I'm resigning from the Opera with immediate effect."

"What?" Christine grabbed his hand. "Erik, no. You can't!"

Erik looked up at her. There were tears in his eyes. "I don't think I have any choice, Christine. Not after what happened tonight. Things will never be the same if I stay here. And they might even be more difficult for you."

"Oh, Erik, not this again." She squeezed his hand. "Nobody cares about how you look. You must know that. I know that. And I also know you're not a coward."

Erik visibly flinched at the word, and Christine knew from his expression that something was definitely wrong.

She rose to her feet again and walked slowly towards Philippe. "What are you really doing here?"

Philippe didn't answer, which only served to infuriate Christine further. How dare he stand there so casually when he had caused Erik such pain?

"You've threatened him, haven't you? Don't you think you've done enough damage for one night?"

The Count merely shrugged. "It's Erik's decision."

Christine heard Erik's chair slide back, and then she felt his presence behind her. His hand hovered above her shoulder. "Please, Christine. The Count's right. It is my decision. And I can't stay here." She turned to face him, and he gave her a weak, lopsided smile.

"It won't be so bad," he said. "If this night has taught me anything, it's that I don't belong here. Not really. I've had to pretend for too long. It's probably best that I'm alone for a while."

Christine did not like the implications of this remark; she could remember only too vividly the sense of loss during Erik's absence from the Opera, after she had seen his face for the first time. Something told her that if Erik disappeared again, he would retreat into seclusion permanently. And the thought of him locking himself away was too sad to endure. Not now. Not after everything they had been through together.

She looked him straight in the eyes. "You can't just run away, and you do belong here. Please, Erik. The Opera needs you. I need you."

She heard a sound behind her, and it seemed so unlikely that for a moment she thought she must be imagining it.

The Count was clapping.

"Bravo, Miss Daae. You were born for the stage."

She shot him a glare. "Be quiet!"

"You really mean what you say? About him?" Philippe laughed. "Miss Daae, you don't need someone like him. Look at him. Ugly. Weak. Pathetic."

Erik had turned away. Christine saw his shoulders tense as if Philippe's words were a series of sharp, stinging blows.

"With Erik gone, I'll be patron of the Opera again. I would make sure you sang all the great roles." Philippe stepped closer to Christine. "You could sing anywhere. Anywhere in Europe. I guarantee it." He held out his hand. "Please, Miss Daae."

Christine recoiled from him. "Do you honestly think that I'm going to stay and sing for you? If Erik goes, I'm leaving too."

"Christine…" Erik's voice was soft, tremulous. "You can't do that. I would never forgive myself. Your life is here at the Opera."

"You're wrong." Christine tried to keep her voice steady. "There are other places to sing. And we'd be together."

"Can't you see? I have nothing else to offer you beside the Opera, and I can't stay here." Erik hung his head, his face still turned away from her. "But it doesn't matter. You don't need me to succeed."

She threw up her hands in exasperation. "This isn't about success, Erik! I love you."

Erik shuddered at her words, his shoulders rising and falling in what appeared to be a silent sob. He was shaking his head from side to side in denial. "No…it's not possible…"

"Look at him," sneered Philippe. "You don't seriously wish to tie yourself to this…this thing?"

"I can do as I wish." Christine glared at Philippe. "And I want nothing from you."

Turning her back on the Count, she reached inside a hidden pocket in her costume.

Erik had retreated to the other side of the room, where he stood with his back to them both. His shoulders were hunched. He looked defeated, she realised. Broken.

As she looked at him, she knew what she needed to do.

Aware of the Count's eyes upon her, Christine tried to appear as calm and confident as she could as she crossed the room and stood just behind Erik. Inwardly, she was very far from being calm, and her emotions lurched from fear to hope and back again as she withdrew the gold ring from her pocket.

She reached up and placed a hand on Erik's shoulder, gently drawing him around to face her.

She held up the ring, and saw his eyes widen.

"I think this belongs to you," she said. "I would like to return it, without assumptions. But I want you to know this: whatever you choose to do, whether you stay at the Opera or not, it will make no difference to how I feel about you. I hope you will want me by your side, whatever happens. But please, please don't isolate yourself. Don't hide yourself away." She took his hand, placing the ring in his palm and gently closing his fingers over it. "I love you, Erik."

And as he stared at her, she put her arms around his neck, leaned forward, and kissed him.

2.

It was their second kiss, but it still came as a shock to him. It seemed strange, that Christine should want to kiss him, even in the presence of another, and not flinch at the touch of his deformed lips. Just as before, an unkind voice, a less confident shadow-self, whispered inside his mind that this could not be real, that it was a temporary illusion and he would get hurt. He ignored it, forcing himself to return Christine's embrace. He brought his hands up, shakily, and rested them on her back. He could feel tears start to spill from his eyes.

Breaking the kiss, he buried his face in her hair and allowed himself to weep, silently but freely.

"It'll be all right," she whispered, rubbing his back.

And in that moment, with Christine in his arms, he knew in a flash of clarity that she was right. None of it mattered. Philippe de Chagny could blackmail him and force him to resign, but Christine would still be there. The Count would have nothing but his anger and his jealousy.

Erik took a deep breath and straightened his posture. He still had the ring in his hand, but he would not propose now. Not yet. Such things required privacy, and he would not allow the Count's presence to ruin such an important moment.

Gently, he freed himself from Christine's arms and wiped his tear-damp cheeks on his sleeve.

"I love you, too," he said. And, grateful for her strength, her kindness, her patience, he whispered: "Thank you."

He knew the words were inadequate, but they were all he had.

Then he approached Philippe, who was standing very still behind the desk.

"Very well, Monsieur le Comte. Blackmail me. Force me to leave the Opera. Go ahead."

"Erik," Christine took hold of his hand. "Are you sure this is what you want?"

"Please, my love, this needs to be said." Erik grasped her hand briefly, before turning his attention back to Philippe. "You can't hurt me," he said. "Christine loves me, and I love her, and that's all that matters."

The Count looked at him incredulously. "You really don't care about the Opera, do you?"

"Oh, I care about the Opera. Far more than you can imagine." Erik gave a brief, almost wistful laugh. "It's a funny thing, but I always thought that my influence at the Opera was the most important thing in the world. As long as I had power here, then I didn't need anything else. I now realise I was wrong. I love Christine far more than I love the Opera, and you can't do anything to change that. And she'll love me whether I'm in charge here or not."

Philippe's lip curled. "Sentimental nonsense. If you believe that, Erik, then you're even more naïve than I thought. These stage women…these singers and dancers…they only want one thing, which is to use us to help them further their careers. Just you wait, Erik, until a more attractive prospect comes along."

"How dare you!" Christine stepped forward and placed a hand on Erik's arm. "Erik, please, you're wasting your time trying to reason with this man."

"You will not insult Miss Daae." Erik kept his eyes fixed on Philippe. "I won't ask you to apologise to her, as I know such a talent is not in your repertoire. I will, however, insist that you leave us. Right now."

The Count chuckled. "I'm only speaking the truth. There's no true love, Erik. Not for the likes of us." He stepped closer to Erik. "Very well. Resign or don't resign, it's all the same to me. Do as you wish, and I'll do as I wish in turn. The deal's off."

Christine looked at Erik in confusion. "What deal?"

"Watch out for the first review of Don Juan, Mademoiselle. I hope you won't take it too personally. Freedom of the press, and all that…" Philippe bowed to Christine, before turning to Erik. "I do hope she stays with you. But I sincerely doubt it."

Philippe made for the door, but Erik stepped in front of him.

"Philippe."

"Let me pass." The Count tried to push Erik aside, but Erik caught his arm.

"Philippe. Please. This whole thing…it's utterly ridiculous. Can't you see that? We used to be friends."

"Yes. We did, for what good it ever did me."

"If I can't appeal to you as a friend, then can I appeal to you as a gentleman? Miss Daae has done nothing to you. You used to behave like a good man, an honourable man…"

"How dare you lecture me?" Philippe wrenched his arm from Erik's grasp. "How dare you talk to me about honour? Have you any idea what I've given up, these last few years, just to appear honourable?"

Erik glanced at Christine, and then back at the Count. There was something odd in the man's expression, as if his face was a particularly fierce mask that was about to crack, or fall away. For the first time, Erik noticed the shadows beneath Philippe's eyes, the tired furrows in the man's brow.

He realised that he recognised the look. He had seen a similar face staring back at him from the mirror in those dark days after the gala, when he had feared he would never see Christine again.

"Sorelli doesn't strike me as the sort of woman who would admire such behaviour from a suitor," said Erik, in a low voice.

Something glittered in the Count's right eye. His moustache twitched. But the uncertainty lasted for only a moment, before the mask reappeared, hardening his face.

"You'll forgive me if I choose not to accept advice from a sideshow freak," he said. He turned and nodded to Christine. "Good evening, Miss Daae."

Wounded despite himself, Erik stepped to one side. The office door slammed shut.

He was left alone with Christine.

"Erik? What did he mean by a deal?"

He turned to see that her face had gone pale, and her hands were curled into nervous fists. He glanced away, suddenly embarrassed.

"You were right when you accused him of threatening me. He said he would ruin your reputation if I refused to resign."

"My reputation? But I've done nothing wrong."

Erik took her hand. "I know, my love. He doesn't mean your reputation as a person. He means your reputation as a singer. He's O.G."

Christine frowned. "The critic? I don't believe it."

"It's true. He admitted it. He could write a bad review tomorrow, trash the whole production, and people would believe him."

She shook her head. "No."

"No?"

"They won't believe him. We had a full house tonight. I'm sure other critics were in attendance. And besides, even if he does write bad things about me, I'm still going to sing here, aren't I? I'm a member of your company."

"Yes, Christine. But that's assuming I still have a job tomorrow." Erik sighed. "I behaved badly tonight. Onstage."

"I think you reacted as anyone else would have done, given the circumstances." Christine reached for his still bare right cheek, tracing the outline of a scar with her fingertip. Erik closed his eyes.

"I took liberties. I had no right to sing tonight. And then after he…" He swallowed hard. "After he unmasked me, I lost my temper."

"You can still make things right. Talk to the company. They'll understand. I think most of them already do."

"I hope so, Christine."

A series of firm raps sounded on the office door. Erik groaned and covered his disfigured cheek with a hand.

"What now?"

The door opened to reveal a tall, well-dressed gentleman carrying a walking stick. Behind him stood Raoul de Chagny.

"Come in, sir, come in," said Raoul, ushering the man across the threshold. The man stared at Erik with a certain degree of uneasiness, as if he were a wild animal that might pounce. Erik bristled with annoyance at the gentleman's wide-eyed stare, but he had to admit that he must look a little unusual, even aside from the hand pressed over his face. He was still wearing Don Juan's cloak. His wig had been removed along with the mask, and his sparse hair was sticking up in all directions. He tried to smooth it with his other hand, and hoped it was not obvious that he had been crying.

He attempted to cover his embarrassment by fixing Raoul with a glare.

"Another de Chagny. How delightful. Tell me, do you normally invite guests into other people's offices?"

To his credit, Raoul didn't even blink at Erik's sharp tone.

"Pardon this intrusion, Monsieur Carriere, Miss Daae, but this really can't wait. May I introduce the Minister of Fine Arts?"

Erik tensed. "Ah. Pardon me, sir, I did not recognise you."

"We haven't actually met." The Minister's voice sounded strained. "May I sit down?"

"Of course."

Raoul pulled out a chair for the Minister, who sat down at the desk.

Erik remained standing. "What can I do for you, sir?"

The Minister folded his hands together upon the desk and gave Erik a long, appraising look. Erik had to fight an urge to shift his weight from foot to foot in discomfort.

"I was somewhat confused by the events during the opera tonight," said the Minister. "But Monsieur le Vicomte has explained everything to me."

Raoul nodded emphatically. Erik pursed his lips.

"Your principal tenor – Ubaldo Piangi – suffered an accident backstage, is that correct?"

"Yes. That's correct."

"And, in the absence of an understudy, you stepped in."

Erik looked down at the floor. "Yes."

"As you know, Monsieur Carriere is the composer," said Raoul. "He knows the part better than anyone. The only other option would have been to stop the performance."

"I see," said the Minister. "And then, in the excitement of the curtain call, you lost your mask, which was once again an accident, yes?"

Erik caught Raoul's eye. The Viscount looked at him pleadingly.

"That's right," said Erik. "Yes."

"And everything you said after that was down to the shock?"

"Yes."

"I'm Monsieur Carriere's patron," said Raoul. "I can vouch for his good character. He didn't mean to lose his temper. I'm sure Miss Daae will agree with me."

The Minister looked at Christine, who nodded.

"Thank you, Monsieur le Vicomte, Miss Daae. You've been very helpful. But now I must ask you both to wait outside. I need to talk to Monsieur Carriere alone."

Raoul nodded, and opened the door for Christine. She squeezed Erik's hand as she walked past him, and then left the office with the Viscount.

When they were alone, the Minister addressed Erik in a less guarded manner.

"Please sit down, Carriere. There are a couple of things we need to discuss."

Erik would have preferred to remain standing, but he decided it would be best to humour the Minister. He sat.

"And please don't feel obliged to hide your face from me."

Erik hesitated for a moment. Then he removed his trembling hand from his face. The Minister glanced briefly at Erik's deformity, but then leaned back in his chair as if the sight had done nothing to change his opinion of Erik. The problem was that Erik did not think the Minister's opinion of him was particularly high. He had the awful feeling that this meeting would not end well.

"I know what really happened tonight," said the Minister, in hushed tones. "I spoke to some of the company. Apparently someone hit Piangi over the head. I'm guessing that the same person also stole your mask, and that person was Philippe de Chagny. Am I right?"

"Yes," said Erik. "But I'm confused…why pretend otherwise?"

The Minister spread his hands. "Why court scandal? It would be far better for the Opera if it was just a series of unfortunate accidents. And although several people saw Philippe tear your mask away, we can't prove that he assaulted Piangi. There were no witnesses."

"The man tried to blackmail me. Right here. He threatened to ruin Miss Daae's career."

The Minister frowned. "I should like to see him try. She was wonderful tonight."

Erik closed his eyes. "I'm glad you think so."

The Minister's thoughtful, critical look had returned. Erik was reminded unfavourably of his audition at the Paris Conservatoire all those years before.

"Tonight has changed things," said the Minister. "I wish it hadn't, but it has. You took a great risk by staging Don Juan. You must have known that your position as director might lead to a conflict of interest. But the Undersecretary insisted that the opera was of great artistic merit. Perhaps it was worth the risk; only time will tell. But you shouldn't have gone onstage tonight."

Erik shook his head. "I had no choice. As the Viscount said, I would have had to cancel the rest of the performance."

"Surely you had an understudy?"

"There wasn't anyone else. Don Juan is a very difficult role to learn. It was hard enough for a singer of Piangi's experience."

"All the more reason to have an understudy." The Minister sighed and shook his head. "Listen. On a more personal note, I'm glad you carried on. It was an extraordinary performance, and I'm pleased I was there to see it. But you're the artistic director, first and foremost. Not a composer. And certainly not a singer. It's your job to lead. And if you wish to continue as artistic director, then tonight's performance should not be repeated. Tomorrow, Monsieur Piangi will return to the role of Don Juan. Do you understand?"

Erik nodded. "Of course."

"Thank you." The Minister stood up, apparently ready to leave, but then he paused before he reached the door. "Tell me, Monsieur Carriere, because I'm intrigued."

Erik did not look at the Minister. The warning had been milder than he thought, but it was still humiliating, and his pride had been stung. "What about?"

"Where on Earth did you learn to sing like that?"

Erik raised his head, and was surprised to see that the Minister was smiling. The expression made him appear far less formal, as if business had been concluded. The curiosity in his tone came as a surprise.

"As a boy," said Erik. "I had a wonderful music teacher. I loved singing more than anything. Singing and composing."

"And you never considered auditioning for the Conservatoire?"

"I did audition. I was turned away. I think my appearance caused the panel some discomfort."

The Minister shook his head. "Shame."

Erik shrugged. "Perhaps."

"It's a pity that such a talent should be hidden away."

"I was able to sing tonight," said Erik. "And as you said, the performance can't be repeated."

"Not if you wish to remain in your current position. But people have been known to change direction." The Minister smiled. "You have a remarkable talent, Monsieur. Both as a composer and a singer. Tonight turned into something of a disaster, but I hope it has also shown you that other things are possible. Two thousand people heard you sing tonight, Carriere. You may find your voice and your music in demand, whether you like it or not."

Erik was stunned. The idea that anyone might wish to hear him sing again had not occurred to him, particularly after the events of the curtain call. He swallowed hard and managed to speak: "Thank you."

"Think about what I've said." The Minister of Fine Arts retrieved his cane from the umbrella stand. "Goodnight."

Erik found himself alone, confused, and staring at the closed door.