Thank you for all your insightful reviews! As a warning, there is a heavy M section in this chapter.

I will also be traveling and unable to upload next week (nearly all the weeks I miss uploading I'm traveling). I hope this tides you all over until I'm back :) As always, I love to hear your thoughts.


Christine chewed on her thumbnail distractedly, closely examining the board in front of her, the black and white chips gleaming. She knew she wasn't going to win. It had been clear from the very beginning, right when Nadir confidently and swiftly moved his pieces without having to count out the points, as she still had to do. Her goal now was to lose with as much dignity as possible.

When she picked up a chip, Nadir raised an eyebrow and said, "Hmm. Interesting."

"What?" she said, putting it back down. "Is that wrong?"

"No," he said lightly. "There aren't any 'wrong' moves, per se. Just different strategies."

"Erik said that I need to get my pieces out of your area fast," she said, "and into my own home board."

"Yes, that is definitely his preferred style of play," Nadir said, scratching his whiskered cheek. "But you can be more strategic, you know. You can be patient, keep your chips there, and wait for an opportunity to hit any of my vulnerable pieces."

Nadir's pointers came too little, too late, and she lost soon after, sticking her bottom lip out in a pretend pout as Nadir finished bearing off the last of his chips.

"You played very well," he said politely, not taking the bait when she rolled her eyes in an exaggerated show of disbelief. He continued: "If you'd like, we can try again, and I'll show you a few different techniques."

As Nadir was showing her how to better prime her home board, Erik entered the house, having disappeared without a word several hours ago. Christine smiled up at him as he approached the table, but he was taking in the position of the chips on the board, his eyes narrowing a little.

"You are teaching her how to be an even worse player than before," he declared, pointing at the way her pieces were lined up. "She won't be able to get those chips out before you start bearing away."

Nadir sighed, obviously annoyed. "Erik, we've had this argument a thousand times. It's simply a different strategy than what you like to use." His own eyes then narrowed slightly, the tiniest glint of smug satisfaction in them as he said, "And besides, when has your strategy ever worked? When was the last time you actually won? Ten years ago?"

There was one beat of silence that preceded Erik's reply.

"Get up," he said to her, his voice hard steel. She scrambled out of the chair, and he took her place, quickly resetting the board. The game was silent, swift, the pieces moving in such complicated and ingenious ways that she wondered if she had been playing the same game at all. When she started to ask Erik about a move he had made, he shook his head, a gesture for her to be quiet. She tried not to be offended and simply watched.

Nadir patiently and steadily primed his home board, and he then hit one of Erik's exposed pieces, where it remained on the bar roll after roll.

"You always play too emotionally," Nadir said. "I've told you this for years. You need to play more logically, more objectively."

"Shut up and roll," Erik snapped. "Spare me your lectures."

The game was over soon after, all of Nadir's chips off the board in a neat little pile. Christine looked at Erik nervously, wondering if he was going to throw something in anger. His jaw was clenched tightly, his hands curled into fists on his thighs.

"Again," he said stiffly. "I made a stupid move on my second roll. It was obvious what I should have done instead."

"Of course," Nadir said mildly, placing the pieces back on the board.

Erik lost another three games in a row before he broke. He stood from the chair abruptly, the legs squealing against the floor, and glared daggers at Nadir.

"You—I'm still recovering!" he snarled. "Of course it's easy for you to win against an opponent who has a handicap!" Then he rounded on her. "And you are going to be late! Do you want to get fired opening night, then?"

Christine resisted reminding him about how he had insisted just that morning that he was perfectly fine, that he was tired of her fussing over him, and that he didn't need to rest anymore. She also resisted telling him that she was in no danger of being late, as she had at least another hour until call time. Instead she looked at Nadir, who still had a very slight gleam of triumph in his eyes. Erik caught the silent, exasperated exchange of glances between them and stormed off, going back to the office and slamming the door shut behind him.

Rolling his eyes, Nadir gathered up the pieces and said, "What did I say? Too emotional, as always."

She laughed. "I wish we had time for another game before you go," she said. "I can't believe you're leaving tomorrow. It's too soon."

"I have to get home," he said, using his cane to help push himself out of the chair. "Shayan is going out of town in a few days, and if I'm not there, who will water the plants?"

The comment made her laugh again. "I'm just grateful you came in the first place. If you hadn't, I don't know what would have happened." Tears suddenly filled her eyes at the horrible thought of just what could have happened without him, and she continued shakily, "I'll never be able to thank you enough for everything."

While her feelings towards Nadir were still somewhat mixed, given all that had happened over the past few days, she was genuine in her gratitude. It really was thanks to him that Erik was still alive.

Nadir cleared his throat gruffly, looking uncomfortable at her unexpected emotional sincerity. "I still don't know how I feel about this…arrangement," he said, frowning. "But if this is what you really want…"

"It is," she said quickly.

"Then I won't make the mistake of deciding for you," he said. "Not again, anyway. But Christine." Here he lowered his voice, quickly glancing over his shoulder to make sure the office door was still closed. "If you change your mind later—if you want to leave him for good—I don't know that he'll let you go again. This might be your last chance."

"He wouldn't keep me here," she said, her heart skipping a beat. "Not after what's happened. I know it."

He frowned, looking at her with something akin to pity. "I'm glad you have faith in him," he said quietly. "I hope you're not wrong. Because I can't keep coming back here. You know that, right?"

She nodded, guilt needling her again for dragging him back into this when he had moved so far away specifically to separate himself from them. At least he hadn't been injured this time.

"But," Nadir said, a rare and small smile crossing him, "I guess that I finally get the chance to watch you perform. If you're half as good as Erik makes you out to be, then the trip will have been worth it."

A little embarrassed heat touched her cheeks, and she said stupidly, "I'll try my best."

They then shared an awkward, if not earnest goodbye. As Christine would be attending the opening night party and Nadir's flight was scheduled early the next morning, there would be no other chance to say farewell. She hugged him again, and this time he returned the embrace. Perhaps they weren't exactly friends, and perhaps they would never see eye to eye on certain things, but Christine still felt connected to him in a way that made her deeply care for him and his well being.

When she knocked on the door of the office, she received no reply.

"Erik?" she called, rapping lightly on the door again. "I'm leaving now. Hello?"

Silence was her only answer, and she huffed in annoyance before giving up. After gathering her bag, she left the underground house, nerves starting to buzz in her stomach. They were the usual opening night nerves, but they were also for the fact that after Nadir left, she and Erik would truly be alone again. What would that mean? What would this new chapter of their relationship look like? She knew what she hoped for, but was Erik even capable of giving her that?

Distracted by these thoughts, she barely noticed the people she walked by on her way to the dressing room. It was only when she felt a hand grab her shoulder that she realized someone had been saying her name repeatedly.

"Christine?" Samantha said, shaking her a little. "Hello? Can you hear me? You okay?"

"Oh," she said, a bit startled. "Yeah, I—sorry, just lost in thought."

"You need to see this," Samantha said gleefully, pulling on her arm to get her to follow. Christine did so, confused, wandering through the halls and past other performers and staff. Many of them had a similar expression to Samantha's: gleeful, mirthful, a little smug, and they exchanged knowing glances and whispers to each other as they passed by.

"What's going on?" Christine asked, frowning as a group of giggling mezzos hurried past them, heading to the door near the end of the hallway. There was a small crowd gathered outside, and she slowed a little, realization coming to her.

"That's Carlotta's dressing room," she said nervously.

"Exactly," Samantha said, grinning. "Let's go see before they clean it up!"

"What happened?" Christine said, a slightly shrill tone in her voice. "What's wrong?"

"That's what we get to see!" came the reply from Samantha, who abandoned her during the last few feet and hurried to peer over someone's shoulders, the small gaggle of onlookers snickering and murmuring amongst themselves.

Horrible visions raced through her head, a rapid succession of worst-case scenarios. Had Erik done something? What kind of vengeance had he enacted?

Hurriedly, she wiggled her way through the little crowd, her heart in her throat. When she finally saw the room, she stopped short, her hand clapped over her mouth, disgust mingling with a strong urge to laugh.

At least fifteen fat, ugly, brown toads were lounging in various places throughout the room, two on the vanity, some on the small loveseat, several sitting serenely in the dark far corner of the room.

"She found one in her purse," someone next to Christine said, obviously thrilled to be sharing this new bit of gossip. "I heard she nearly passed out!"

"It's a goodbye gift from the Ghost!" another person said loudly, causing everyone to laugh.

"I don't get it," a young sound technician complained.

Before anyone could reply, a loud voice came down the hallway, saying, "All right, that's enough, everyone! Let's go, we are performing tonight. That's enough!"

Mr. Moncharmin was hurrying up the hall, tired bags under his eyes, his bushy eyebrows knit together deeply. He waved his hands at them, as if trying to scatter them like a bunch of pigeons. To Christine's surprise, it worked. Everyone slunk away, still tittering and whispering amongst themselves. As Mr. Moncharmin grabbed the door and slammed it shut, Samantha took Christine's arm and pulled her away as well.

"I am going to find out whoever is responsible for this!" Mr. Moncharmin threatened angrily at their retreating backs. "No one this childish and unprofessional belongs in this company!"

"So she's gone?" Christine asked Samantha the moment they stepped into the common dressing room. "Officially?"

"Officially," Samantha replied, smirking. "It happened just before I got here. Apparently you could hear her scream from outside. I wish I had arrived just five minutes earlier!"

Christine was still torn between laughter and horror. Hesitantly, unsure if she even wanted an answer, she asked, "And Mr. Poligny?"

"He left a few days ago," Samantha said. "When you were out sick. It wasn't that fun. He just packed up a box of stuff and snuck out. No one saw him go."

The dressing room was noisier and busier than usual, the collective energy of opening night mixing with the drama of Carlotta's departure and the dressing room fiasco.

"So gross!" Samantha said, darkening her eyebrows. "I feel bad for whoever has to clean all those toads up. Who do you think did it?"

Christine pretended to concentrate on applying her eyeliner in order to avoid answering. "I don't know," she finally said lamely.

Samantha spent the rest of the time happily speculating about the culprit, at first telling Christine that it was probably a production assistant Carlotta had yelled at last week, and then saying it was a violinist that Carlotta had wronged years ago. When the bell rang, signaling ten minutes until the curtain rose, Christine had never been more relieved.

The prank was mostly harmless. She knew that. No one had actually gotten hurt. Still…she found it in somewhat poor taste. Carlotta was already leaving, her career derailed; why add insult to injury? Sometime later, while waiting for her next scene, Christine tried to whisper this to Samantha, but the other woman shut her down quickly.

"You haven't been here long enough," she said. "That woman was a nightmare, Christine. I'm serious. Her talent wasn't worth all her tantrums and demands."

It sounded just like something Erik would say. Maybe Christine was just the spineless one here, too timid to ruffle any feathers or stand up for herself. Maybe Erik was right; maybe she was too naive for this business.

But as she sang, as she was on the stage, she knew there was nothing else she wanted to do. The swell of the orchestra, the energy from the audience, the lights on her—it was the only thing she could ever envision herself doing. When the audience applauded for her at curtain call, just for her, she felt like she could float off the stage. What else was out there for her that could ever compare? Nothing.

Afterwards, at the opening night party, the only thing people wanted to talk about was the dressing room prank. Christine, sick of having to feign interest in discovering who had done it, excused herself after less than an hour, happy to have a few minutes of solitude as she walked through the hallways and exited the Opera House. As she approached the door at the end of the alleway, however, the nerves returned. She was going down below. Of her own volition. Erik was not forcing her. She was choosing to go. She wanted to go down.

It was not, however, the triumphant, eagerly-anticipated return she had expected. The house was dark and empty when she entered, and she stood in stunned silence for a few long moments. She had thought he would be waiting for her, maybe pacing nervously or stiffly sitting at his desk, watching the clock, counting down the minutes until she returned. The fact that he apparently had better things to do than welcome her back was hurtful.

As the night progressed without any sign of him, she debated leaving, going back to the apartment and giving him a taste of his own medicine. However, as Nadir was staying there one more night before his departure the next morning, that option was, annoyingly, gone. Instead, she got ready for bed, muttering angrily to herself as she changed and brushed her teeth. She curled up in the bed and glared at the ceiling until she couldn't keep her eyes open any longer.

Some hours later, a shifting of weight on the mattress woke her. She blinked sleepily, squinting through the darkness, trying to make out the tall, thin shape of him.

"Where have you been?" she murmured, her voice scratchy and thick with sleep.

He was silent for a few moments. "You came back."

It was then that she caught the strong smell of alcohol that wafted from him. She grimaced and put a hand over her nose.

"You were drinking?" she said. "Why?"

"You came back," he said again.

"I said I would," she replied, confused. "What time is it? Did you watch me tonight? Did Nadir like the show? How did—where were you?"

"You came back to me," he whispered, his cool hands brushing over her face and curls. "My Christine. You were radiant tonight. You were resplendent. You could have gone anywhere, with anyone. They all wanted you. But you came back to Erik. To Erik's bed, of all places." One of his hands slipped underneath the neckline of her nightgown and, to her shock, cupped her left breast and squeezed tightly.

"Ow!" she yelped, pushing his hand away, heat rushing to her face and between her legs. "What are you—what's wrong with you? Where were you tonight?"

"Aha. You're still my little wife, then? My nagging, complaining little wife? But you said you liked Erik's touch."

"You're drunk," she said angrily, upset that the night was ending like this. "I'm going back to sleep."

"In Erik's bed."

"What do you—yes, Erik, in your bed!" she snapped, sitting up. "Why are you acting like this? What's wrong?"

"You came back," he repeated, his voice suddenly hushed, and he gathered her in his arms, pressing her against him. "My Christine. Oh. I didn't dare dream that you…But you're here. You came to me on your own. You are such a good girl. You were magnificent tonight."

His words might have been flattering had she not been pinned to his bony chest awkwardly, the smell of sour whisky filling her nose, and she squirmed against him until he released her.

"I'm going to sleep," she said again coldly, turning away from him. "Goodnight."

To her relief, he didn't grab at her again, instead settling next to her with a defeated grunt, and she eventually fell back asleep, confused and worried. Erik wasn't all sweet words and beautiful music. It was tempting to think that he would always be on his best behavior to make her stay, but she knew that she had to remember that he was also volatile, mercurial, confusing, and sometimes downright mean. It would be unfair to both of them if she went into this strange part of their relationship expecting him to be something he was not.

She was alone when she woke the next morning, and after getting ready and taking a deep breath to try to brace herself, she left the bedroom.

He was sitting in his chair but stood as soon as she stepped into the room. A thin book dangled from his hand, and he stared, his expression unreadable. She scowled and folded her arms when his silence continued.

"You're not going to say anything?" she said. "About last night?"

"Ah. Last night?" he repeated, his voice a bit rough and hoarse. "I'm sure I owe you an apology for something. I don't remember much, unfortunately."

"Where did you go?" she asked. "Why weren't you waiting for me?"

A very slight smile ghosted across his lips, so quickly she wondered if she had imagined it, and he said lightly, "You sound like Erik, you know." He set the book on the chair and stepped closer to her. "I was with Nadir, if you really want to know. We toasted to your success. He was quite impressed by your performance."

"That's a nice way of saying you got wasted," she said, still glaring. "Why would you do that? After you almost…After all those pills from just the other day!"

"Yes, Nadir was saying the same thing." He shrugged. "As you can see, I survived. Again."

She shook her head, determined to be mad at him. "You woke me up last night. You were annoying."

He winced and said, having the decency to sound somewhat shamefaced, "I see. I hope I did nothing unforgivable."

For a moment, she was tempted to tell him exactly what he did, but when she noticed the way his shoulders sagged and the lines under his eyes that were more pronounced than usual, she stopped herself.

"Did you think I wouldn't come back?" she then said quietly. "Is that why you stayed away so long?"

He gave another shrug, unconvincing in his attempt to look uncaring, not meeting her gaze as he said, "I didn't know what to think. I don't know what this is."

If she were being honest, she didn't know, either. She couldn't say that, however, as this whole idea had been hers. Instead she sighed, finally unfolding her arms, doing her best to let the events of last night go. She was not, however, entirely done scolding him.

Fixing him with a stern raised eyebrow, she said, "Is there any point in telling you that I don't think your joke on Carlotta was very funny?"

"You're being a little spoilsport," he said, waving a hand, as if to swat away her disapproval. "I heard it was quite the success. Besides, you should be proud of my restraint. It was harmless. She deserved much worse for what she did to you."

"You're kicking her while she's down," Christine argued.

"Yes, yes," he said, somewhat impatiently. "Go ahead and get your moralizing over with. Poor, misunderstood Carlotta Giudicelli and all that."

She stuck her nose in the air in indignation and marched away to the kitchen without another word, feeling silly and self-righteous but in too deep to admit it.

After eating breakfast, she gathered her things and pulled on her shoes. Immediately, Erik was at her side again.

"Where are you going?"

She glanced up at him. "I'm going to visit my dad."

"I will take you," he said. "Give me one hour to arrange everything."

Shaking her head, she finished with her shoes and stood. "I want to go now. I'll just take the bus."

"But why?" he pressed. "It will be much more comfortable for you if I take you."

She frowned and did her best to keep her voice calm as she said, "I'm going to go now. Alone. I'll be back down after the performance tonight. Okay?"

"Let me take you. Let Erik—"

"No, Erik," she interrupted, somewhat loudly. "I'm going alone. You know it has to be this way."

His shoulders crept up a few inches to his ears, and his eyes narrowed as he looked at her.

"Do whatever the hell you want, then," he hissed. "Get assaulted by some coked-out drifter on your beloved bus, as you insist!" He turned around and stormed to the office, ignoring her as she tried to tell him to stop and talk to her. The door slammed shut behind him.

Christine hesitated, and then she left the underground house.

The summer day was hot and bright, and she spent a very long time at her father's grave, pulling some weeds around his headstone, speaking softly to him, lying on the prickly grass and looking up at the blue sky, thinking.

It had to be like this. The only way Erik would understand that she was going to return was if she left and actually returned. She was sure there would be several more tantrums ahead, and while they were kind of pathetic, they were also understandable. He had had her for so long, had controlled nearly every aspect of her life. It was undoubtedly tortuous for him to give all that up. He had basically said as much.

She returned to the Opera House for her call time. To her annoyance, most people were still talking about the toad incident. Wild rumors were exchanged in the dressing room, some women insisting that Mr. Poligny had hired a stagehand to do it, while others said it was a baritone Carlotta had spurned years ago. Christine did her makeup and hair in silence, her mind far from the excitable gossip.

After the show, she went back down, just as she had promised.

This time, he was waiting for her. He had discarded his jacket and gloves and unbuttoned his shirt a bit, his hair slightly awry, a sign that he had been running his hands through it. When he saw her, he stood very still, staring, as if nervous he would scare her away with any sudden movement.

"I'm back," she said quietly, unnecessarily, dropping her bag on the sofa and trying to smile at him. "Did you watch me tonight? How did I do?"

"You need a new challenge," he said. "La Rondine is too easy for you now. You were a little robot onstage."

She kicked off her shoes, knowing he was right but not wanting to say so. "You're my manager," she said instead. "Find me a new challenge."

Behind his mask, an eyebrow raised in apparent surprise, and he nodded. "I will."

Later, in the darkness of the bedroom, she shifted close to him, putting a careful hand on his chest. When he said nothing, she moved down, pushing her fingers under the waistband of his trousers to find him. A soft moan came from his throat.

"Why are you torturing me?" he panted as she moved her hand up and down. "God—Christine."

"How am I torturing you?" she murmured, her cheeks warm. It was partly an attempt at titillating him and partly an honest question.

"You torture me with what—ah! With what I want but can never have. Oh—fuck. God."

She let go of him to straddle his hips, sinking down against him, flushed and tingling, glad she was wearing a nightgown so that there was one less layer between the space where their bodies pressed together. As she moved against him, he grabbed her waist, pulling her even deeper into him. She gasped, warmth pulsing through her core.

"What—what do you want?" she whispered thoughtlessly, her mind starting to turn into nothing but a desperate, insistent don't stop, don't stop, don't stop.

To her surprise and brief dismay, he pulled her from him, pushing her back against the mattress, hovering over her. When two fingers slipped into her without warning, she gave a shrill cry, grabbing onto his arm tightly.

"I want you, you stupid girl," he said roughly. "Let me have you. Love me. Stay with me. Christine. God, you're wet. Tell me you want me, too. Let me hear you say it!"

She wasn't sure she was able to speak at all. Her vision was swimming, there wasn't enough air in her lungs, and her throat was already moaning.

"Love me," he said again, nearly demanding it as his fingers moved in her. "Let me have you. Love me!"

His hand left her, only to be replaced by his mouth moments later. Christine wondered if she would have done anything he asked her, just as long as he didn't stop—didn't stop—

She climaxed with her fingers tangled in his hair, her voice loud and almost sobbing, his hands gripping her thighs to keep her to him.

As she trembled and panted, trying to stop her legs from shaking, he rose from between her thighs and moved up, leaning down to kiss her. It was unlike him to be so forward with kissing her mouth, and there was a metallic, acidic, musky taste on him that she could only assume was herself.

He pulled away, his eyes glowing in the darkness. "Love me," he repeated, almost desperately. "Tell me you love me. How can you kiss me and not love me? How can you come back to my bed and not love me?"

She swallowed harshly, wishing he would be happy with what she was able to give, at least for that night. But he never had been satisfied. He had always wanted more of her. All of her. It had been that way since the very beginning.

Carefully, she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him to her, cradling him in her arms, his head on her chest. A few minutes later, something warm and wet soaked through her nightgown. She said nothing and simply held him.