Mr. Reyer summoned her to his office one morning yet again. Christine made her way there before rehearsals, having tried to ask Erik what the meeting was about and receiving nothing but a shrug from him. Perhaps Mr. Reyer was going to offer her another role in the mysterious upcoming German production.

"Come in, Miss Daae," Mr. Reyer said, glancing up from his desk when she announced herself by knocking on the half-opened door. "Please sit."

"I know we don't have much time before rehearsals start," he said, shoving aside a pile of official-looking papers. "I won't take up too much of your time." He then fixed her with a pointed, slightly-concerned look. "Is it true you're receiving offers? From other companies?"

Christine hesitated, unsure how to answer. "Yes," she finally said. "A few."

"And do you intend to accept any of these offers?" Mr. Reyer pressed. "Has your…er, manager expressed to you that he intends for you to leave this company?"

"I don't know," she said, half-truthfully. The relationship between Erik and Mr. Reyer was strange to her, as she had no idea how much Mr. Reyer actually knew. She had always erred on the side of saying as little as possible to him about Erik.

"Well," Mr. Reyer said, now appearing a bit flustered. "If he is even considering another offer, we'll have to do something about that. I'll speak to the management about your contract. I'm sure we can come to an agreement that will make you want to stay with us for a long while."

"You'll talk to Mr. Poligny?" Christine said, nervous at the thought.

Mr. Reyer's brow furrowed. "Mr. Poligny?" he said. "No, he doesn't handle contracts. He's over creati—" He cut himself off suddenly, going as pale as she had ever seen him.

"Mr. Reyer?" she said. "Are you okay?"

"Did you—" He coughed, clearing his throat. "Miss Daae, have you…discussed your contract with Mr. Poligny?"

"He asked me to come to his office," Christine said. "I…uh, didn't go."

"Oh. Thank god." Mr. Reyer's face cleared, and he sucked in a deep breath. "Thank god. And your manager. Does he know that Mr. Poligny…invited you to his office?"

She hesitated, unsure of how to answer. "He…he was the one who told me not to go."

Mr. Reyer groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Oh, my god," he murmured. "What a disaster."

"What's wrong?" Christine said.

Mr. Reyer waved a hand at her. "Tell your manager that I'll take care of it," he said, not bringing his face up to look at her. "Tell him I will handle it. And I will get your contract sorted out."

She took that as her dismissal. "Okay. Uh, thanks, Mr. Reyer."

As she was standing from the chair, Mr. Reyer reached out suddenly, grabbing her arm, and she looked at him in confusion.

"Tell him I'll take care of it," Mr. Reyer repeated, looking up at her. It sounded like he was begging her. "There's no reason for him to be concerned about you. You'll tell him, won't you?"

"Of course," she said, pulling her arm away from his grip. The conversation was becoming unsettling, and she grabbed her bag and took a few steps towards the door, out of his reach. "I promise I'll tell him. I—I have to go to rehearsals now, Mr. Reyer."

Mr. Reyer nodded, his expression falling into one of misery. "Thank you, Miss Daae. I will see you there shortly."

Later that night, as soon as she was back in the underground house, she told Erik about the conversation. To her shock, he began laughing when she was done.

"What's so funny?" she asked.

"I would not be surprised if Reyer is having quite the breakdown right now," Erik said, his eyes gleaming. "His rising star, his hidden crown jewel, and she might be snatched away from right under his nose. He wouldn't be able to live with himself."

"What do you mean?" she said, frowning.

"It would be the ultimate failure," he said. "An entire career wasted. Some lecherous manager can't keep his hands to himself, and now Reyer must pay the price. I'm sure he pissed himself when you told him what happened." He laughed again.

"I still don't get it," Christine said, starting to grow a little annoyed at her own lack of understanding and Erik's intentional ambiguity.

"Reyer thinks I intend to take you somewhere else," he said. "And he obviously wants you to stay here. You are destined for greatness. Reyer is not a fool, he knows exactly what you are. Imagine the fame, the accolades he and the Opera House will receive once the world truly knows who you are."

"But Mr. Reyer isn't my teacher," she said. "You are."

"The world will not know that," Erik said, reaching over to stroke a few of her curls. "They will only see Reyer, the hidden genius, who plucked you out of nothing and molded you into the most gifted singer who has ever graced the stage."

She frowned. "That's not fair," she said. "It wasn't him. It was you."

"Well, it isn't as if I would be able to appear by your side to take the credit, now would I?"

"Why not?" she said.

His mood soured immediately, and he dropped her curls. "Don't be naive," he said.

"How am I being naive?" she asked. "You're so talented, Erik, more talented than I'll ever be. People should know about you!"

"Now you're being deliberately stupid and cruel," he said coldly.

She pressed him: "But there has to be a way. It's not fair that nobody knows about you. Maybe you could digitally—"

His hand shot out to grab her upper arm, shaking her into silence. "Stop this," he snapped. "Do you really think I haven't already thought through every possibility? That I haven't tortured myself for years with ideas and what ifs? I have accepted what's been given to me. I don't need you nagging me with your silly little ideas."

Christine pulled at his grasp, embarrassed and hurt. "I just want you to get the credit you deserve. It's not fair that the only piece of music of yours that's out there was published with someone else's name."

"Fairness is a concept for children and gullible idiots," he said, letting go of her arm, his eyes narrowed. "There is no fairness, meaning, or justice in life. Just arbitrary happenstance."

"But you could—"

"Enough!" he interrupted, his voice not quite a shout but nearly there. "I don't want to discuss this anymore. This is our lot in life. This is where an unfeeling, unpredictable universe has placed us. The sooner you accept that, the better."

So saying, he walked away and locked himself up in his office, once again leaving her hurt, confused, and alone for the rest of the night.

A few days later, she asked him, "Where do you actually go?"

He lowered the book he had been reading, observing her from his chair, his thin lips pulled down a bit at the corners. "I don't understand the question," he said.

Christine tucked her feet underneath herself, curled up on the couch for warmth. Her own book lay in her lap, unread, uninteresting.

"You just disappear for hours on end," she said. "Two days ago you were gone all morning. And last night you weren't here at all."

"I've told you about my obligations as the Ghost," he said. "Most of the time I am busy with those. Otherwise I am occupied with things that aren't so glamorous. Mundane errands, tasks. Food does not magically appear in the cupboards, you know."

Somewhat skeptically, she said, "You were grocery shopping at three in the morning?"

"Why was my little wife awake at that hour?" he said.

Her cheeks bloomed with the slightest hint of warmth, but she shook her head. "I'm asking you. Where did you go?"

"Last night?" He tapped a long finger on the arm of his chair, looking at her closely. "I went to the roof."

"The roof? Of the Opera House?"

He nodded. It was not an answer she had expected at all, and she frowned a little in confusion and said, "What's up there?"

"Nothing at all," he replied, lifting the book back up.

"You went all the way up there for nothing at all?" she said.

His eyes narrowed a bit as he looked at her over the pages of his book, obviously wanting to read it instead of continuing the conversation. A little impatiently, he said, "I go there often. It's quiet, and I'm spared interrogations like this."

She rolled her eyes and huffily brought her book back up in front of her face in an obvious show of annoyance, but the book was still boring, and she stared at the words in front of her, wondering how long she had to pretend to read before she could politely excuse herself for bed.

"Would you like to go?"

Christine lowered the book to just below her eyes, looking at him with an eyebrow raised in confusion.

"To the roof," he clarified. "Would you like to see it?"

"Oh. Yeah! I mean, if—if I'm allowed to go up there."

He gave an impatient noise with his tongue. "Of course it is not allowed," he said. "But a Ghost must be everywhere." Then he closed the book, setting it aside. "Get your shoes."

"What?" she said. "Now?"

"I'm interrupting something terribly important?" he asked snidely.

She wanted to throw her book at him. Instead she stood and gathered her things, pulling on her boots, a heavy coat, and her favorite woolen blue scarf.

"Good," he said approvingly when she returned. "It will be cold." Then he opened the door, took her hand, and led her out and into the darkness.

A few minutes later, she made to turn their usual corner, the one that headed to the room by the alleyway, but he tugged her in the opposite direction. "This way," he said.

The new route was a bit strange, unfamiliar, and she kept close to him, glad that he seemed to know exactly where he was going. They were soon walking on wood instead of the usual stone, and Erik told her that they were passing underneath the stage.

He led her to a staircase, opening the heavy door and gesturing her through. A little hesitantly, she entered and began to climb. After several long minutes, her legs were aching, and she could feel herself perspiring underneath her thick coat and scarf. Panting, she tugged off her scarf, clutching it in her hand, using her other hand to drag herself up with the railing.

"No elevator?" she gasped.

"Not to the roof," he said, his voice still even, as if he wasn't currently in the middle of climbing hundreds of stairs.

She had to stop and take a break for a few minutes, slumped against the cold metal stair tread, breathing heavily, embarrassed by her lack of stamina. Then she shakily clambered to her feet and resumed the climb.

After what felt like an eternity, they at last reached a door, and he opened it, cold air rushing in, feeling wonderful against her sweaty face.

He took her hand and helped her down a steel staircase, slick with early spring ice, and she gripped onto him tightly, feeling how one wrong step could easily send her tumbling all the way down.

The roof was not as beautiful up close as it was far away. The shapes looked big, bulky, and clumsy, and she could see some decidedly unromantic utility boxes in a far corner. The wide, flat area in which they stood was covered in a thin layer of crusty, dirty snow, and she kicked at some absentmindedly, looking around.

"What do you do up here?" she asked.

"Think," he said simply.

"What do you think about?" she said.

"Ah." He took her scarf from her hand and wound it around her neck, tucking it in tightly. "You, mostly."

Christine wanted to press him, ask him just what he thought about her, but it felt decidedly too vain and selfish, so she instead gave a little laugh, which felt stupid.

"Well, at least you have a nice view for your thinking," she said, gesturing awkwardly to the lights of the city below them. It really was a beautiful view, and she wanted to get a better look, but that meant she would have to get closer to the edge. And with snow and ice covering everything, that seemed like a very bad idea.

He pulled her curls out from underneath her scarf, arranging them over her shoulders, and he said quietly, "I was cruel to you the other night." He avoided her gaze, looking intently at his task, like it was the most important thing he had ever done. "Again. You were trying to be…kind. I know you were not malicious with your intent. I have…" He trailed off, pushing and pulling the same few strands of hair back and forth, as if trying to decide which way he liked better. While him playing with her hair felt nice, she wished he would stop and look at her instead.

"It's…difficult for me," he said. "To believe in your kindness. I know I don't deserve it, and the fact that you continually offer it to me—"

"Erik…" she interrupted, starting to feel a little uncomfortable with his words.

"Let me finish," he said, looking into her eyes for the first time, one of his hands slowly threading through her hair.

"I've told you this all already. Many times. I've told you again and again that I will be gentler with you, yet I'm constantly driving you to tears. I give you no reasons to…care for me. Erik was made to be hated."

"I don't hate you," she said quickly, honestly. "I don't."

A small, humorless half-smile pulled at his shapeless lips, as if he didn't quite believe her, and he said, "Again. That damnable kindness I don't deserve. If you weren't so soft-hearted and good, you would have found a way to kill me a long time ago, and I would have understood why."

She felt her mouth drop open at just the idea. Her feelings towards Erik were still complicated at best, but she knew she didn't want him dead, and she would never, ever want him to die at her hands. The thought was horrible.

Carefully, gently, he ran his thumb across her cold cheek, causing her face to become suddenly very warm, a sharp contrast to the chill of the night. A memory flashed through her, that of his long fingers between her legs, pressing there insistently. She pushed it away quickly, as well as the heat that was beginning to creep into her core.

"I want to be happy here," she said, looking up at him. "With you. But—but sometimes I wonder if you…if you even like me." When he frowned in obvious confusion, she quickly clarified, "I mean, if you like me. Christine. As a person. I know you like my voice. I know you like…me physically."

He pulled his hand away at that, as if just barely realizing how much he was touching her. She pressed on. It felt freeing to be able to finally voice some of the unhappy thoughts that had plagued her for months.

"I feel like all I do is make you mad. Like you don't even like talking to me or hearing anything I have to say. I know I've done bad things." She wasn't able to look at him anymore, and she dropped her gaze instead to his fine coat, the dark woolen fabric that fell over his thin, bony chest. "But I really am sorry about Raoul. I was just really scared and lonely. I didn't want to—"

"Stop," he said, his voice stern but not unkind. "You needn't continually admit your guilt and apologize. It's over."

"But I know you're still mad at me about it," she said, feeling the slightest tremor in her voice. "Just the other day you said—"

"I know what I said," he interrupted shortly. "It was said out of anger, and it was cruel. You again see how there is nothing good in Erik. You once said that you believed I could be a good man, but you know the truth now. I am the same man I've always been. You deserve more, but I am too selfish. I would die without you."

He had said that to her many times, and each time she had wondered what it actually meant. Would he die of a broken heart? Was that even possible? Or would he actually take his own life if she ever left? It was an uncomfortable, distressing thought.

After another moment of silence between them, he took one of her hands and held it between his, the gesture strangely sentimental and tender.

"And to reassure you," he then said softly, "I do like you. Very much. You are, quite possibly, the only person in the world I like." He brought her hand up, pressing her palm against his mouth. He did not kiss her hand but simply held it there, breathing against her skin, and his eyes closed for several long moments

The intimacy of the moment was unsettling, and she said weakly, stupidly, "Maybe you just haven't met very many people."

To her further surprise, he laughed at her comment, his voice beautiful and full. "No," he said, dropping her hand. "I suppose I haven't." Then he straightened and said, "Come, let's go. It's late, and I don't want you to catch a chill."

She slipped and nearly broke her neck climbing back up the steel staircase, and she had to endure several minutes of Erik swearing and telling her to be more careful, and that it had been a stupid idea to bring her up to the goddamned roof, and that quadriplegics didn't make for very fucking convincing opera stars, if she didn't know. Christine rolled her eyes, which he saw, and which sent him into another tirade.

"You swear too much," she interrupted him after a minute.

"I will say whatever I damn well please," he snapped.

It was strange to think that they had just shared a quiet, tender moment on the rooftop underneath an early spring moon and stars, and now he was ranting at her angrily as he tugged her down stair after stair. It felt so easy to go from one extreme to another with him.

By the time they returned to the underground house, she was exhausted, colder than ever, and desperately thirsty. She peeled off her coat and scarf and then struggled with the laces of her boots, her fingers still a bit stiff from the frigid air. Erik watched her for a moment before giving an impatient huff and kneeling to help, making quick work of the knots.

"Thank you," she said, gripping onto his thin shoulders for balance as he tugged the shoes off her feet.

"Is there anything else my diva requires?" he said, giving a little mocking bow from his knees. It made her laugh, the tenseness from his earlier bad mood vanishing.

"A glass of water and bed," she said, not really expecting any response, but to her surprise, he stood and went to the kitchen, returning with her requested item. She felt a rush of gratitude towards him, and she took the glass with a murmured thanks and drank it.

"Your bed is just through that door," he said, taking the empty glass back and pointing at the bedroom with one long finger. She stepped closer and wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug. He put a hand on her back, and she closed her eyes for several moments, letting herself enjoy the embrace.

"Thank you," she said again.

He gave her an awkward pat on the back and then cleared his throat pointedly.

"You should sleep," he said. "You have rehearsals tomorrow."

Christine nodded, letting go of him at last. She offered him another small smile, a murmured goodnight, and went to the bedroom, closing the door behind her. As she lay in the large bed, her eyes closed, exhaustion already pulling her into sleep, she couldn't help but feel a bit lonely and wondered if he would have joined her had she invited him in.