A/N: For everyone who has reviewed and continues to read this story, thank you so much! This chapter is going to be a little difficult to read, just to warn you. It's also kind of mature. I'm apologizing in advance for what's about to happen.

And to the Guest who asked me this, Alison Taylor was not named after Taylor Alison Swift.

Chapter Nineteen

Alison and Erik were laying on the rooftop on top of a small picnic blanket, enjoying the clear, dark blue sky of early evening. They didn't speak or touch, just reveled in the sensation of being near each other. Erik wasn't wearing his mask, and the fresh air on his face felt strange, but beautiful. He felt more accepted and loved in this moment than he ever had in his entire life. Alison let her mind drift, allowing herself to simply be with him. Neither of them wanted the moment to end. All of a sudden, Alison remembered something and sat up with a gasp.

"Erik! What time is it?"

He struggled to move and craned his neck to look at his pocket watch. "It is five o'clock exactly. Why do you ask?"

Her eyes widened. "Madame Giry told me to be back by five! I have to go now. I'm so sorry, but I promised her."

He nodded reluctantly. "If you made her a promise, you should keep it. But will you allow me to give you two last things before you go?"

"All right," Alison said, smiling.

He smiled back at her. "One." Out of nowhere, he produced a rose with a small stem and tucked it behind her ear, into her flowing hair. Her hand moved and touched the petals gently.

Before she could thank him, he leaned close to her and kissed her gently, softly. She kissed him back, her lips full of the love she felt. He pulled back slowly. "Two," he whispered. "Now you can go, mon coeur. I love you."

"I love you too," she said softly. "I'll see you soon."

Then she turned and skipped to the door and off the rooftop. Her head was full of Erik: his touch, his kisses, everything about him. She was encased in her love. She felt untouchable, as if nothing could go wrong.

She was so absent-minded that she took the wrong turn in the tunnels and found herself in the passage that led to the mirror door. She looked into the prima donna's dressing room, and, seeing no one there, decided to take that exit. One time taking the wrong door isn't going to hurt anyone, she thought. She pushed the catch and was deposited gently into the dressing room. She was on her way out when a slurred voice from behind her stopped her.

"So it's true." She turned sharply to see Patrick leaning against the wall next to the mirror. He had a bottle in his hand and swung it back and forth in a languid way. As he approached her, she could smell the sharp scent of the alcohol on his breath.

"Tell me, Alison, was it any good with that monster? Or did the sight of his face make you throw up?"

A small, unexplainable snake of cold fear slipped into her. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, Patrick. Have you been drinking?"

He dropped the bottle and laughed, a small, short, sharp laugh. "Don't try to deny it to me. I know where you've been. I know who your lover is."

She started to take deep breaths, trying to fight the panic that was beginning to well inside her. "Bravo! Top of the class," she said, trying to be blasé and flippant. "Now that you've proved your intelligence, I'm going. I'm late and Madame Giry will have my hide."

With speed she didn't think possible, Patrick slipped to the door and leaned in the doorframe. His manner was casual, but it sent a clear message: You're not going anywhere.

She backed away from him and tried to run to the mirror. He caught her arm in a bruising grip and pulled her to him. The smell of the alcohol overpowered her. "You refused me for a deformed, murdering freak. You made yourself his slut and let him have you when you wouldn't allow me even a touch. You made the wrong choice. You've been bad. So I think, little miss Alison, you should be punished." He spoke to her in a mock baby voice.

Her face remained calm, but her insides were screaming and terrified. "Get off me, Patrick," she said steadily.

He shook his head, a scary smile spreading across his face. "No, I don't think I will. You're mine, Alison Taylor. No matter how much you think you care about that thing, you will always be mine. Now I think it's time that you understood that too."

His hand snaked around to the back of her head and crashed her lips to his. She struggled, squirming and twisting in his grip, but she couldn't get free of him. Finally he came up for air, gasping.

She used the hand that he wasn't grabbing to slap him hard in the face. She was expecting the shock to be so great that he would let go, and she would run out of the room and to the safety of Madame Giry's office. That was the theory, anyway. But instead, Patrick just grabbed her hand an inch from his face and kept her wrist in an iron grip. He twisted both her wrists behind her back, catching them in one hand. He kissed again, rough and demanding, as he pushed her back, so that she was pressed against the wall.

"Get off me. Get off me, you sick bastard! Let me go!" Alison screamed as loudly as she was able, but Patrick's lips cut off her scream.

"No, no, no, no. You mustn't scream and ruin the game." He leaned close to her face, with a predatory look in his eyes. "And the more you fight, the more pain you'll be caused, I swear to God. Shut up or I'll kill you, you little slut."

By now, there was no doubt in her mind what he meant to do. "You'll never get away with this," she hissed. "Erik will come and kick your ass. He loves me. He'll kill you."

There was a smug smile on Patrick's face. "Not if he doesn't know I've done it."

"Can you hide it? I'll tell him myself."

Patrick raised an eyebrow. "Will you? Will you really tell him about what I'll do to you on the floor of the prima donna's dressing room? It'll only prove to him that you're the whore that I've always known you are. It'll show him how worthless you truly are. When he finds out, he'll get on up and walk away. And I'm pretty sure you don't want that to happen. Now shut up and stop trying to attack me, or I'll make you suffer."

She struggled, fighting him. She tried to kick him where she knew it would hurt most, but their close proximity meant that she couldn't get enough leverage to make it have any effect on him. Patrick's eyes narrowed. "Getting feisty, hmm? We'll soon remedy that." With his knee keeping her pinned against the wall, he stripped off his shirt and grabbed a dress that was laid over a couch. He twisted them like ropes and used them to tie her wrists to the legs of the dressing table. Once he was sure that she was secured, he turned to the door and locked it securely as Alison thrashed and fought, attempting to get free. Then he grabbed the dressing screen and dragged it over in front of the large mirror.

"Now even your little boyfriend can't interrupt us. Let's see if you're as good as he seems to think you are."

"Erik! Erik! Please help me!" She waited, hoping, praying that he would hear her, but no one came. Slowly her mind came to realize that no one would come. No one would ever come.

The terror took over Alison's mind as Patrick approached and reached for her dress…

Madame Giry waited in her office at 5:45, pacing back and forth. I know that she's in love and happy with Erik, but is it so difficult to be on time? She leaves me no choice but to go and fetch her. She got up and walked briskly to the prima donna's dressing room. The door was slightly ajar. Madame Giry flung it open, intending to go through the mirror and give the happy couple a piece of her mind… then stopped, frozen in shock at the sight before her.

The room was a mess. Furniture was knocked over and dresses were strewn all over the floor. The dressing screen was in front of the mirror, shielding it from view. But Madame Giry's eye was drawn to the person who lay unconscious on the floor.

Alison's hair was spread out about her in complete disarray. Purple bruises were beginning to form all over her. Her dress was ripped to shreds, barely covering her skin. There were marks that resembled rope burns on her wrists. Her right hand was clutched in a fist over something that Madame Giry couldn't see. The fist looked like it had been stepped on repeatedly. Although she was unconscious, there was still pain and fear etched on her features.

Madame Giry knelt down beside her prone body and gently brushed her hair away from her face. "Oh, Angelique," she whispered softly, her voice full of tenderness and pain. "What has happened to you?"

But she didn't need to ask the question. She knew. There was no conclusion that could be reached from the sight before her other than the truth.

Alison had been raped.