I do not own the Phantom of the Opera. Obviously.

Three years later…

"Puis-je s'il vous plaît obtenir sept de ces tartes aux bleuets et ... un de ceux fraises aussi. Et trois des pommes honeycrisp s'il vous plaît. "

"Bien sûr, mademoiselle…"

With a crinkle of paper, the shop keeper packaged the pastries and apples. Coins clinked. Striped blue bag in hand, Kayla strode away from the stall. A cloud of red and black flowers swirled above her head, and the rain trickled off and fell in soft droplets to the pavement below. Blue-grey light trailed from the sky, illuminating Kayla's hands like candlelight. She tilted her head, pearls of rain beading on her forehead. A layer of water covered the city, blurring every colour and turning the streets of Paris to paint.

Crunching between her teeth, the apple ran circles over her tongue as she unlocked the side door. Kayla shook out her umbrella, letting the cloud of flowers fold back into nothing. With a flick of a switch, the generator hummed, and lights flickered. Her boots clunked on the wooden staircase as she tromped up and threw her purse into her locker on the balcony. Rain thrummed against the windows of the music room, and ripples danced across the honey floor of the studio. With the jangle of keys, she unlocked the door of her office and gently set the bag on her desk. Her fingers trailed gently over the dark wood frame, lamplight glinting off a square of dark blue taffeta.

Shedding her blue raincoat, she hung it from the back of the door and ignored the little drops of water dripping onto the carpet.

Lamplight shimmered across the framed sheets by the door, the gold letters flickering.

University of Calgary

Kayla Delaine Abbots

BFA, BFA - Honours

Bachelor of Fine Arts – Visual Art Design

Bachelor of Fine Arts – Drama: Set Design and Costuming

Opéra National de Paris et le Nationale Academie

Kayla Delaine Abbots

For a Year of Excellence and Commitment

Theatre – Fashion and Set Design

Picking up the bag again and letting her office door swing shut behind her, she strode through the hall as the Palais Garnier slowly came to life. "Abbots, bonjour!"

"Bonjour!" She tossed a pastry over the railing.

"Fraise? Shit, fraise! Merci!"

The other pastries were deposited elsewhere, one on a desk downstairs, two on the counter in the box office, one down a stairwell, one into the dance studio into an expectant hand, one on the conductor's podium. She did her rounds, checking up on the computers and mechanics, turning on breakers, tightening ropes, and oiling gears. Every piece of the main set in its proper place. Each costume in the dressing room labelled with a name, next to a box of jewellery, makeup, and smiling faces stuck in the frames of the mirrors. Gilt mirrors.

She thought that three years out the sheen of a gold frame would have stopped sending curls of flame up and down the back of her neck. Ha.

Every piece and prop organized and accounted for, Kayla leant on the railing of the orchestra pit, watching the dancers warming up. She felt a hand on her shoulder. "I hope I do not interrupt."

"Bonjour, Carolyn, what's up?"

Carolyn propped her elbows on the gold rail, swirls of red leotards pirouetting in the dark mirrors of her eyes. Neither spoke for a moment. "Your first opening night as credited set designer. Nervous?"

Kayla's nose scrunched up. "Not nervous so much as terrified."

"Did you have any preference for where you will sit this evening?"

Kayla paused for a moment, listening to the guiding calls of the ballet master. "Isn't everyone in five tonight?"

"I thought I would give you another option, just because the box will be a little crowded… the executives invited the new score writer and a couple of the main sponsoring partners, of course."

"Is this for the originals we discussed at the last Academie meeting?"

"Oui. I shall put you in five if you are comfortable with the prospect; I thought you would appreciate advanced warning."

"Oui, I do appreciate it, thanks."

Carolyn turned to go.

"Hold up. Who's the score writer?"

"Good question. Hmm… his last name is Durham, I believe. He's Scottish… or French, I can never remember. All I know is that the executive scouted him personally and his recordings sound promising."

Kayla nodded. "Good enough for me." Her fingers ghosted over the rose glittering in the centre of her chest.

She tugged at the hem of her shirt, fiddling with the wrinkles around the neckline. That shop assistant had been right; the aqua green really did make her eyes pop. It made her trademark rose pendant pop too, if she was being honest. Boots, black jeans, blouse – it was fine, wasn't it? Staring at her reflection, her eyes roved over her makeup, and deemed it the best she could do under the circumstances. Whipping her hair into a high bun, she flipped off her reflection and breezed out of the bathroom. Voices and laughter rang through the air as she passed over the lobby and the throngs waiting in line. She pulled her phone out of her back pocket and sent a good morning message to Samantha before switching it to silent.

Scampering through dark halls, she squeezed past compatriots, clapping crew members on the shoulder, wishing dancers luck, and humming the score under her breath. Her boot heels thumped on the carpet, and she scurried through the backstage and up the stairs to the second level boxes.

"Mademoiselle Abbots! Bonjour, comment allez-vous, mon cher?" Carolyn turned to greet her and shook her hand, as did the three executives.

"Bonjour Carolyn, Monsieur Lorrain, Madame Bowen, Madame Catharine. Bien, merci."

Carolyn continued in French, gesturing to the men behind her, introducing them as the four representatives of the theatre's main sponsors. "Gentlemen, this is Mademoiselle Kayla Abbots, our international artist-in-residence, assistant stage manager, and the credited designer of this evening's set." Kayla kept the smile plastered on her face, her grip firm and cool as she shook each person's hand.

"I assume Monsieur Durham is running late?"

At Madame Catharine's query, Carolyn checked her watch. "Oui, but he should arrive shortly. Shall we find our seats? The main doors open soon."

The dissonant sounds of different instruments testing their keys flowed through auditorium, tinkling melodically against the crystals of the chandelier. As the audience below settled into their seats, the lights dimmed. There was a rap on the box door.

Carolyn sprang up to open it. "Monsieur Durham, a pleasure! Let me introduce you…"

The figure in the doorway was tall. Incredibly so. Over six feet, at least. He held his hands behind his back, his shoulders relaxed. "Everyone, this is Monsieur Durham, our new composer. Monsieur, you've met our executives, of course – "

Kayla looked back at the stage, watching the curtain flutter. Someone was peeking, obviously. She didn't blame them in the slightest.

"– and you'll meet other sponsor representatives later, I'm sure. And here's one of your fellow soldiers, Mademoiselle –"

"Abbots."

Kayla's spine tightened like a metal rod. Heartbeat thundering in her ears, she twisted in her seat and stared up at the figure at the top of the stairs. His face hid in the shadows, but she thought she could see the glint of a smile.

"Mademoiselle Kayla Abbots. The famed set manager."

Kayla stood up. Climbing over the back of her seat, she walked up the shallow steps to where he stood. Carolyn waved her hand at Kayla. "She is one of our best, currently assistant stage manager and the designer of tonight's set pieces. She oversaw most of the work herself."

"I would expect nothing less."

Continuing to pace forward, Kayla stared up as the light from the hallway drifted across his features. With a sharp inhale, she opened her mouth.

"You absolute motherfucker."

And then she tackled him.

A shout from the peanut gallery arose as they hit the ground, and Kayla pressed her lips to his cheek, her eyes shut.

"Kayla!" Carolyn's voice barked.

His laughter rumbled through his chest. "It's alright, Madame Baker, it's alright. I know Ms. Abbots." As he sat up, Kayla burrowed herself in his chest, pressing her palm against the hollow of his right cheek. Green eyes glinted in the light. "It's quite alright," repeated Erik. "I know Kayla."

Author's Note: More to come. Thank you to everyone who followed, favourited, reviewed, etc. I haven't had time to respond individually, but I appreciate and adore every single one of you. Thank you.

love Tierney

Opening Translation (French):

"May I please get three of those blueberry tarts and… one of those strawberry ones as well. And three of the honey crisp apples please."

"Of course, mademoiselle…"

Taken from Google Translate, so obviously inaccurate. Apologies.