True to her word, she was back well before dark with her father's violin in tow. As Erik did not know what time she would return, he was not waiting for her, and so she made the trek down alone for the first time in a long time.

Her heart was in her throat. She felt sick and wondered if she was going to vomit in the tunnels. What she had done with Raoul was swimming in and out of her mind, mocking her, condemning her, tempting her. She shook her head, tightly clutching her father's violin to herself. It was a horrible mistake, but it didn't have to ruin lives. She had to protect Raoul. He was innocent in all of it. If Erik sensed anything was amiss, he would become suspicious and root around until he found out what had happened.

Just the thought made her blood run cold.

She continued to take deep, calming breaths, not wanting to dissolve into a panic. Do you feel my breathing? You do the same.

When she finally reached the front door, she wasn't completely calm, but she at least wasn't on the verge of throwing up. She said one quick, silent prayer, wincing at the thought that she didn't deserve any help from above after what she had done.

I'm sorry, she thought fervently. I'm sorry. I was weak. I'm sorry.

Then she took one last deep breath and opened the door, stepping into the chilly front room.

Erik appeared out of his room after a few seconds, his jacket and gloves abandoned, making him look strangely casual and relaxed.

"You're back so soon," he said. "I did not expect you for another hour or two."

She tried to smile, but it felt like more of a grimace. "I didn't want you to worry about me," she said, closing the door behind her. She then forced herself to walk over to him and handed over the keys he had given her earlier. "I got the violin," she said unnecessarily, holding it up.

"Yes," he said, not looking at it, instead peering at her concernedly. "You're very pale. Are you all right? Did something happen while you were out?"

She nearly choked. Instead she cleared her throat and set the violin down on the top of the piano, intent on opening it and looking at it to give her something to do.

Erik gave a disapproving noise with his tongue and quickly picked up the hard battered case. "You will scratch my piano," he said, setting it on the bench instead. He turned to look at her again. "You haven't answered my question. You look…distressed."

She stepped around him and bent over the case, flipping it open to reveal the old, cherished violin. The sight brought so many emotions to the surface, and to her horror, she felt herself beginning to tear up. Oh god, please no. She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping to keep the tears from falling, but they dripped out of the corners of her eyes.

"I see. Of course." Erik stepped away, giving her space with the violin, and she was touched and ashamed to realize that he thought she was crying due to her father's violin. Which she was. But she was crying for so many other reasons. She was a bad person. But she liked seeing Raoul too much to stop. She hated keeping such a dangerous secret from Erik, knowing he always found out in the end. And she missed her father. She especially missed her father in that moment, looking at his violin, knowing he would never play it again.

If he was here, what would he tell her? He would have never wanted her to get mixed up with Erik in the first place, she was sure of that. But what would he tell her now? She wanted his advice so desperately.

She cried for only a few minutes before forcing herself to regain her composure. Sniffling, she shook her head and closed the lid of the case.

"Sorry," she whispered.

"No apologies needed," Erik said. "Your father is dead. I'm sure it is…difficult." His attempt at consoling her was pretty bad, but for some reason, it did help just a bit.

"Y-you'll take care of it, won't you?" she asked, hiccoughing a little and looking at him.

"It will be the most beautiful violin," he promised solemnly, which made her want to cry all over again. Overwhelmed, overcome, and wanting to do something to assuage the gnawing guilt in her stomach, she stepped over and wrapped her arms around his bony middle, resting her head against his chest. His ribcage expanded as he gave a little gasp of surprise, something that almost made her laugh. It was such a sincere, vulnerable reaction.

Clumsily, he brought his hands up and pressed them against her back. He smelled like stone and musty earth, and underneath that was a faint hint of perspiration, but it wasn't unpleasant. He was hard, angular, cold. Only his Oxford shirt separated her from his skin, and she could hear his heart hammering in his chest. He was different in almost every way to Raoul, whose embrace she could now remember so clearly.

They stood like that for several long moments. He tried to pat her back, seemed to think better of it, and instead stroked her curls. It felt nice. She let her eyes drift closed for a while. Then she sighed and stepped away.

"Thank you," she said quietly, staring at the floor. "I—I'm really glad to be home, Erik."

The evening was quiet, reflective. Christine stared at a book, not reading anything, confused beyond belief. When she glanced over at Erik in his chair, she saw that he was looking at a book as well, but his eyes were also not moving. They sat in their reflective confused silences for a while. For a moment, she was going to suggest that they play backgammon, but she wasn't sure that she wouldn't burst into another bout of tears. Instead, she waited until her watch told her it was an appropriate time to go to bed, and she stood and replaced the book on the bookshelf.

"Goodnight," she said.

As she turned to go to the bedroom, he stopped her. "Christine."

She paused, looking back around to see that he had stood and was watching her, his expression earnest and pleading. He stepped closer and took her left hand, enclosing it between his large palms, cool and rough.

"I love you," he said softly. "You know this, and I don't know why I have never told you this…but I have to tell you now. I am mad with love for you. I have loved you for so long. I love you like I've never loved anything else. I know this does not excuse some of the things I've done, but maybe now you understand why."

Christine stared, her eyes wide, her heart back in her throat.

"You don't have to say anything," he assured her hurriedly. "I don't want you to tell me what you think I want to hear. I simply—I had to tell you."

She stood there as he reached up and pressed his fingertips to her cheek, five cold points against her skin. Then he pulled his hand away and cleared his throat a little.

"You should sleep," he said. "You have had a trying day."

She nodded and whispered, "Goodnight."

The bedroom was dark, large, and cold when she entered. She burrowed underneath the blankets and cried herself to sleep.

She woke up to a bouquet of flowers and a Kouign-amann waiting for her, as well as a short, scribbled note.

Christine,

I will be out all day. I trust you will make it to rehearsals on time.

I meant what I said last night. I want you to know that.

Yours,

E

Next to the letter was a small set of keys. She picked them up, looked at them, and then fell into the chair, burying her face in her arms, not wanting to see his gifts or touching note. She didn't deserve them or his soft words. If anything, she wanted him to be cold to her, criticize, rage and shout at her like he used to.

He was right. She had known about his feelings for her for a long time, but actually hearing him say it out loud was something else entirely. His voice had sounded so beautiful as he said those words. In the parts of herself that weren't buried under guilt, anger, and fear, the confession had touched her deeply and had made her happy in ways she hadn't been before. But those feelings were tainted with shame, poisoning any pleasure she received.

She clasped her hands together, her eyes shut tight. "God," she whispered. "Please listen to me. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. And—and please, please don't ever let Erik find out."

The house was silent in response. Christine ate the Kouign-amann for breakfast. It was delicious. She stared at the flowers. They were beautiful.

As she gathered her things to leave for rehearsals, she picked up the keys again, clutching them tightly in her hand. He had given her the keys to leave. He was trusting her to go to rehearsals and then return to the underground house, all alone, no supervision or threats necessary from him.

For a moment, she stood there, looking at them. She could leave, go wherever she wanted. She could go to Raoul and tell him everything. She could go to the police and give them the keys, tell them where to find the house, and never see Erik again. She looked at the ring on her finger.

Several long minutes ticked away. She glanced at her watch, slid her bag over her shoulder, and unlocked the door, stepping out into the darkness. As she walked, she wasn't sure if she knew where she was headed. But her feet carried her up, out into the alleyway, around the block, and straight into the Opera House. She went to rehearsals. And when rehearsals were over, she went back down.

Erik returned after dinnertime, and the sight of him walking through the door made her blush a little, though she didn't know why.

"Good evening," he said, his voice soft. "How is my Christine tonight?"

Her blush wouldn't seem to go away, and the embarrassment of it made the color deepen.

"Fine," she said, the reply stupid and inelegant. Then she tried again: "Fine. Yeah. Rehearsals went well."

"I'm glad to hear it. Have you eaten?"

She nodded.

"Good. I would like to take you out on a drive tonight. Get your shoes. Please."

Christine didn't argue, always happy for an opportunity to leave the house, and she let him take her hand and lead her through the door and into the darkness.

"Where were you today?" she asked, not expecting an answer but surprised when he gave one.

"I had some ghostly obligations to take care of," he said. "I've been neglecting my Ghost persona, as I've been busy with you. We wouldn't want the poor Opera Ghost getting fired for shirking his duties, now would we?"

She wasn't sure if it was a joke or if he was serious, so she said, trying to hide the fact that she didn't know if she should laugh or not, "What kind of obligations?"

"Extremely important obligations," he said. "I crammed myself in some closets and yelled 'boo' at a few of the cleaning staff. Then I glued shut all of the drawers in Carlotta Guidicelli's dressing room."

She laughed, relieved that he was in a good mood and was joking with her, and he squeezed her hand lightly, something that made her stomach flutter a bit.

It was cool and dark outside, the late fall night bringing chilly winds, and she was grateful that the car was warm. She wondered what it would be like in the underground house during winter, if it would be freezing or if Erik had found a way to keep it warm. She could remember many winters with her father in their dilapidated, badly-insulated apartment, their breath visible as they wrapped themselves up in layers of threadbare sweaters and scarves. During those cold nights, when the frost crept inside at the corners of the windows and she couldn't sleep because her feet were so cold, she had fantasized about what it would be like to never have to worry about things such as the temperature, the heating bill, or replacing her cheap boots that were full of holes.

"I have something to show you," Erik then said, bringing her out of her reverie. He pulled out a few sheets of paper from his pocket, and for one heart-stopping moment, she thought they were Raoul's letters. But as he held them out to her, she saw that the words were typed, not handwritten. Newspaper clippings.

"Oh," she said. "The reviews for Elektra?"

He nodded. "I realized I had forgotten to share them with you."

She eyed them warily. "What do they say? Are they bad?"

"Read them and find out."

She hesitated and then said, "Would you—would you read them for me? I don't know if I can read them. If that's okay."

He looked surprised but didn't argue, instead holding up the first clipping and beginning to read. It was a short article that criticized the Opera House's selection of Strauss's "polarizing" work, but her heart gave a little leap as the article mentioned her by name and praised her performance. The two other articles were similar: critiquing the show and the Opera House's artistic direction but naming her as a standout performer.

By the time he had finished, she couldn't suppress the small, somewhat-embarrassed grin that was on her lips. He saw her expression and smiled slightly as well.

"Yes, of course they had to mention you," he said. "You are grace and music itself. I'm very pleased with the feedback."

"I couldn't have done any of it without you," she said. "This is…it's all because of you."

He shook his head. "The talent has been there from the very beginning. You are a beautiful diamond that simply needed a little polishing so the world—" He suddenly cut himself off, looking at her, the smile still tugging at his thin lips. "God, I'm rather melodramatic, aren't I? Sometimes hearing myself is just nauseating."

The comment made her laugh again, his rare moment of self-deprecation endearing, and for a while she was able to forget about what she had done, forget about the guilt that chewed at her.

They rode in companionable silence, and Christine glanced at him a few times before slowly sliding closer, her arm pressing against his. He looked down at her, and she held his gaze for one or two seconds before lowering her head to his shoulder. She felt him shiver a little.

"Is this okay?" she asked.

"Yes." His voice was shaking slightly.

His shoulder wasn't exactly nice to lean on. It was bony, sharp, and she had to adjust a few times before finding a position that was somewhat comfortable. She looked down his arm, her dark curls falling to the crook of his elbow. She could see his chest rise and fall with his breathing. Carefully, she reached over and placed her hand in his, her ring winking at her underneath the streetlights. His long thumb ran over the back of her hand, calloused and rough against her skin.

"You are so very soft," he whispered.

His comment made her blush return, as well as her smile.

The car continued to drive, the orange glow of the streetlamps illuminating their entwined hands. She soon lost interest in the buildings they passed by, and she felt her eyes beginning to become heavy. She closed them, dozing against his shoulder. His thumb stroked the back of her hand again. Very faintly, she could hear his steady heartbeat.

"Christine," he said sometime later. "Wake up."

She opened her eyes blearily, recognizing the back of the Opera House and the alleyway. A glance at her watch told her that it was late.

"Time to go," he then said softly, and she looked up to find that he was looking down at her. His masked face was so close to hers, close enough that she could see small wrinkles around the corners of his eyes, close enough that if she leaned forward just a few inches, her lips would touch his. She looked at his lips. They were thin, colorless, the edges tinged by his grayish skin.

Several seconds of silence passed between them. She could see his throat move as he swallowed, apparently nervous. It made her want to laugh again. His free hand came up and pressed against her cheek, cool against her flushed skin.

"Christine," he whispered. He leaned down.

She blinked, a jolt of realization coming to her, and she turned away, sitting up straight, pulling her hand out of his.

"I'm tired," she said, horror creeping into her.

"Yes—yes, of course. I—yes." He quickly climbed out of the car and opened her door. She walked down with him in resolute silence, each step reminding her of where she was going and who was taking her there.

He was the Phantom. He was a murderer. He was a drug addict. He had shot someone in front of her, he had forced her to marry him. He had screamed at her, threatened her, hurt her in so many ways. She was insane—she was becoming just as insane as he was.

When they arrived back at the underground house, Christine went straight to the bedroom, ignoring his quiet, "Sleep well." She shut the door firmly behind her, pulled out a piece of paper and the pen, and went to the bathroom, locking the door.

To her surprise, it was as if her plan was fated to succeed. The very day she posted the letter, one was delivered to her from him.

Dear Christine,

I hope your retreat thing is going well. And I hope it'll be over very soon :)

I know this sounds a little cliché, but I can't stop thinking about you. I hope what happened in your apartment was okay for you. I mean, it was amazing for me, but I want you to be comfortable too.

I don't want this to turn into some sappy letter, but I hope I can see you again sometime soon. Please write back and tell me that I can.

Sincerely,

Raoul

She pressed the letter to her heart, taking a deep breath. It was fate. It was kismet. This was how it was supposed to happen.

Although she could tell that Erik was confused by what had occurred in the car, he didn't mention it, for which she was thankful. The next evening, she went to his room, knocking on the door. He opened it slightly, looking surprised at her interruption.

"Is there something you need?" he asked.

"I wanted to ask if I could leave on Saturday," she said. "You remember my friend, Meg Giry? She asked me to have lunch with her downtown. I would really like to go." The lie sounded so effortless, so smooth and natural.

"Your friend?" He paused for a moment. "Oh, yes. The dancer."

Christine nodded. "I really want to spend some time with her and catch up. Please."

He hesitated. "Saturday," he repeated.

"Yes. I'll be back before dark, I promise."

She didn't even blush as he looked at her closely. "Well—I suppose so," he said reluctantly, apparently having no ready reason to object. "As long as you are home before dark."

She resisted rolling her eyes at his repetition, instead saying, "I promise."

When Saturday arrived, she waited impatiently in her room, changing her outfit three times, staring at her watch, willing it to go faster. When it was finally time, she pulled on her coat, scarf, and shoes and went to the front door.

Erik approached, holding the keys in his bony hands.

"I'll be back before dark," she said obediently. "I promise."

"Of course."

She waited, a little frustrated by his inaction, but she said nothing as he peered down at her.

"Are you all right, Christine?" he asked, his voice soft. "You have been acting so strangely these past few days…"

Her heart gave a lurch in her chest, and she tried to smile. "I'm fine," she said. "I think I'm just starting to get nervous for opening night."

He frowned. He didn't believe her. To her relief though, he handed over the keys anyway. She took them, slipped them in her pocket, and said a quick, "Goodbye."

The sight of Raoul waiting for her nearly made her tear up. When they were both inside, she wasted no time, throwing her arms around his neck, pressing her lips against his. There was no pretense in her. Obviously surprised, Raoul laughed against her lips, but he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close.

Deep down, she knew she had to end it, because it was too confusing for her. She liked it all too much, liked the feeling of his lips and hands. She wanted to tell him it was over, but how was she supposed to speak when he was kissing her so insistently, so passionately?

He tugged her over and laid her down on the squishy sofa, his fingers warm on her skin as he ran his hands down her back and sides. He leaned back momentarily to slip off his shirt, and she pressed her own hands against his smooth back. It wasn't fair that he was so handsome, she thought to herself as he pressed his wet lips against her throat and collarbone.

Her sweater also came off, and his hand reached up to pull down the cup of her blue bra, his mouth returning to her breast. She whimpered, burying her fingers in his hair. One of his hands slid down, slipping underneath her jeans, only the thin layer of her cotton underwear separating his fingers from that throbbing spot between her legs. It didn't take much longer after that. Once he pressed there, she felt the waves wash over her, and she let herself be carried away by them, if only for a few blissful moments.

But she then had to come back to reality and deal with the fact that she was doing something that could get Raoul killed. She had to tell him that it was goodbye. But instead she smiled up at him as he looked at her, his eyes clear and blue.

"Jesus, you're so beautiful," he said quietly. "This has been…seeing you again, after all these months. And you're so…I don't know. Christine, I—I love you."

Her heart froze in her chest, the smile disappearing from her lips. She sat up immediately, pushing him off of her, and he quickly tried to apologize.

"Sorry!" he said. "I only meant—it's been nice to reconnect a little. I shouldn't have said that, I got carried away."

She grabbed her sweater, her hands shaking, and tugged it over her head. "I have to go," she said.

"No, please, let me explain," he said, trying to take her hand. She pulled away, not wanting to look at him and be swayed by his earnest expression. When she leaned over to tie on her shoes, she heard him give an annoyed sigh.

"Look, I said I was sorry, okay? I don't know why you're acting like what I said was offensive or hurtful. But how am I supposed to—I mean, you won't even tell me what this is, what we're even doing."

She pulled on her coat, zipping it up to her chin. "No, I'm sorry," she said, still avoiding looking at him by wrapping her scarf around her neck. "This was a bad idea. I shouldn't have asked you to meet me again."

"I don't understand," he said, stepping over to stand next to her. She wished he would put his shirt back on. "Why don't you leave your retreat? Then we can stop with all the secrecy. You said you could finish whenever you wanted. Just finish, and then we could…"

He trailed off, but she knew what he was going to say. We could pick up where we left off. We could date again. We could see each other every day instead of every two weeks for an hour or two. We could be normal. She had been naive to think it would end any other way.

Finally, she turned to face him, grasping at her fingers, pulling them uncomfortably. "Raoul," she began, unsure of how best to explain it. "I'm…This is my fault. I'm sorry. I just can't. I mean, it's been…it's been so nice, seeing you again. Things are just so complicated."

"But are they?" he said. "You're standing right there. Why can't you just tell me what's going on? Are you seeing someone else? Is that why you're still wearing that ring?"

It was the first time he had mentioned it since they had seen each other again. Christine felt her face flush, and she hid her hands behind her back.

"I told you forever ago," she protested, though her voice sounded pathetic. "It's from a friend. It doesn't mean anything."

His lips tightened, and his brow furrowed. He looked away from her, hurt and angry, and she felt ashamed. "Please don't be mad at me," she whispered. If Raoul hated her too, she wouldn't be able to handle it. He was all she had left up here, above ground in the real world.

"I'm not," he said stiffly, unconvincingly.

She stepped over to him and hugged him tightly, pressing her cheek to his chest, the light hair tickling her cheek. "Things are weird," she said. "I'm sorry. But seeing you these past few weeks has been amazing. Can't we just…be happy with this? For now?"

To her dismay, he stepped away, shaking his head. "I don't know." He grabbed his shirt and slipped it on, pulling it down over his broad chest and stomach. "This is…I don't know, Christine. I—I can't just spend my life waiting on you. Waiting for your father to be found, waiting for him to get better, waiting for you to get better, waiting to get a letter, waiting for you here. Waiting to see if you—if you even want to be with me." He didn't look at her as he said, "You know how I feel about you. I think it's kind of fucked up of you to keep doing this to me."

She winced, hurt by his words but knowing they were true.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

He gave a frustrated sigh. "Look, maybe once you're done with your whole singing thing, we can talk. Until then…I dunno. Maybe we shouldn't see each other."

She always knew it would end like this, because there was no other way for it to end, but it was still painful to hear. Tears gathered in her eyes, and she stared at the floor, disgusted by herself and her actions. She was hurting Raoul. She was betraying Erik. She was confusing herself.

"Hey," Raoul said gently. "Don't cry, sweetheart. It'll be okay."

It wouldn't be okay. She was destroying three lives over this. Everything was ruined.