Another dress appeared in the wardrobe overnight, as if by magic. When she confronted Erik about it, he shrugged.

"It is for closing night," he said. "But you needn't wear it if it isn't to your taste."

"I was just going to wear something I already have," she protested. "You didn't need to get another one just for the party."

"I can do whatever I please," he said, obviously supremely unconcerned about her disapproval. "Besides, what good is having a beautiful woman by my side if I cannot bury her in a thousand pretty little dresses?"

While the comment made her laugh, she was still slightly annoyed, and she didn't know why. Erik had gifted her many dresses, all of them gorgeous and high quality, and it had never bothered her before.

Unable to help herself, she tried it on in the privacy of the bedroom. There was no mirror in which to examine herself, but looking down at the dress, she knew it was beautiful, with delicate sky blue lace and a somewhat daring neckline. Of course she loved it and quickly picked out some jewelry and shoes to match before packing everything away to bring upstairs.

She was annoyed at herself, she realized. Now that she had her freedom and could go up whenever she wanted, shouldn't she be buying her own clothing? Shouldn't she be mad that Erik still dressed her in what he wanted to see her in? Shouldn't she be in control of every aspect of her life? Shouldn't she want to use her own money to buy her own things? That was what a strong, modern woman would do.

Instead, she thanked Erik for the dress before heading upstairs for the final performance of Das Liebesverbot.

Maybe she would never be able to live up to the example of modern heroines, strong and independent and capable. Despite how much she had changed, she was still the same Christine in many ways, and Erik gifting her with a new dress made her just as giddy and excited as the first time he had done so.

"Wow," Samantha said up above, after Christine had made her way to the closing night party following the performance. She looked Christine up and down. "That dress looks amazing on you!"

Flattered and feeling a little bashful, Christine thanked her for the compliment. They chatted for a bit longer, happily complaining about the conductor rushing the orchestra during the final scene, until Christine saw a group of dancers over Samantha's shoulder, a shock of familiar, pretty blonde hair in their midst.

"Hold on," Christine said to Samantha, her stomach tightening in anxiety. "I'll be right back."

She approached the group, not missing the way several of them glanced at her with raised eyebrows. No doubt Meg had told them horror stories about her.

When Meg finally spotted her, the smile immediately dropped from her lips, and she folded her arms. The unwelcome gesture almost made Christine turn around. Instead she took the last few steps towards the group, resisting the urge to wrap her arms around herself in self-defense.

"Hi," Christine said to Meg awkwardly.

"What do you want?" Meg said curtly.

A little taken aback by the blunt rudeness, Christine blushed deeply, stammering, "Can—can I talk to you for a minute? Please."

Meg exchanged glances with a few of the other dancers, one of whom shook her head subtly, one of whom shrugged.

"Why?" Meg said. "Does the diva need me to do something else for her?"

Wishing desperately that they were somewhere private and not in earshot of half a dozen people, Christine said, "No, of course I don't—please. I just want to apologize. Please, Meg?"

Meg rolled her eyes and sighed, dropping her arms and giving a gesture that clearly told Christine to lead the way. She walked over to a somewhat-empty corner of the ballroom, disappointed by how the interaction had gone thus far and desperately hoping she would be able to turn it around.

"Well?" Meg said, folding her arms again. "Let's hear whatever half-assed excuse you have this time."

"I don't have any excuses," Christine said, all while knowing she had a very, very good one. A masked murderer held me prisoner underground for an entire year. "I was a terrible friend. I was in a really bad place this past year, but I know that doesn't excuse how I treated you. I'm really sorry."

Meg kept her arms folded, her expression still one of disdain, and Christine continued timidly, "I tried to text you."

"I saw," Meg said flatly. "A little late for that, don't you think?"

Of course it was, as she hadn't had her phone in over a year, either. She had texted Meg a few weeks ago, asking if they could meet up for lunch and talk, but Meg had never replied, a fact that had hurt Christine deeply. Perhaps now she understood just a little of how Meg had felt at her sudden and unexplained withdrawal from their earlier friendship.

"I've been to lots of these parties," Meg then said, nodding towards the crowded ballroom behind Christine. "I've seen you at them, too. You never talked to me then."

"I know," she said, wincing a little. "I was too scared."

"So you'll come to the parties now," Meg said, shaking her head. "But not last year when I invited you all the time?"

"I know," Christine said again, her heart sinking. "I'm sorry." It was going so much worse than she had hoped. Of course her wish had been for Meg to forgive her immediately, say it was all water under the bridge, but she was proving to be more stubborn than Christine had anticipated.

"You're going to have to do better than that, Christine," Meg said. "You said you don't have any excuse. So you were just being a jerk for no reason? Why would I want to be friends with someone like that?"

"I was in—in a really bad relationship," Christine relented at last, doing her best to word it carefully. "It doesn't excuse everything, but he…controlled a lot of what I did. It took a long time for him to let me…leave."

Meg was still frowning, but her furrowed brows relaxed just a little. "A bad relationship? Like, an abusive one?"

"Uh…kind of," Christine said. "Yes? It's complicated." When Meg still didn't look convinced, she sighed, tears stinging her eyes. This whole plan had been stupid. Why had she thought Meg would forgive her with no explanation needed? She couldn't tell Meg about Erik, yet he was central to it all. Meg was right; this was all too little, too late.

"Sorry," Christine murmured, looking at the floor to hide her wet eyes. "This was a bad idea. I don't—I'm really sorry, Meg. I won't bother you again."

As she turned to leave, Meg said abruptly, "My friend Jamie was with an asshole for almost two years. It took forever to convince her to leave him."

Christine looked back. Meg's arms were no longer folded, but she was still frowning slightly. She looked at Christine with a mixture of suspicion, confusion, and pity. Then she glanced down and said, almost begrudgingly, "That's a really nice dress, by the way."

Christine laughed a little, short and shrill and strange-sounding due to the way her throat was clogged with tears. "Thank you," she whispered.

Meg sighed again as well. "We can go to coffee next week. Okay?"

Not bothering to mention she hated coffee, Christine nodded immediately. "Yes. Yes! Anytime."

"Text me which days you're free," Meg said, stepping around her to return to her group of friends. "Please be there this time, Christine."

"I will," she said. "I promise. Thank you, Meg."

Her tears gone and her heart light, she returned to the party as well.

Afterwards, she hobbled into the underground house, her feet aching. The way down was always challenging in heels due to the uneven slope of the ground. Despite that, she was in a very good mood, still elated from her conversation with Meg.

She slipped off her shoes and momentarily rubbed her sore feet as she called out, "Erik? I'm back. How was the last performance?"

"The orchestra was rushed during the final scene," he said, appearing from the office and stepping into the front room. "I will have to discuss that with—" He stopped as he looked at her, his mouth parting slightly. Several seconds of silence passed.

"Ah," he said finally, somewhat raspingly. "You look…very lovely in that dress."

She glanced down at it, noting again the neckline that revealed much more cleavage than she was used to. "You picked it out," she said, somewhat lamely, unsure what else to say. Despite all their intimate experiences together, she was painfully aware of how unskilled she was in the unfamiliar and delicate art of seduction.

"Of course," he whispered. "But I didn't realize that…"

The tip of his tongue briefly touched his shapeless top lip, a strangely-erotic gesture, and Christine was suddenly very warm all over. After another few moments of silence, when it was clear he wasn't going to finish his thought, she walked over to him, nervous yet confident he wanted her close.

"We could go—" she started to suggest.

To her surprise, he grabbed her wrist and pressed her hand up between his legs, forcing her to touch him. He moaned softly as she felt him, his breath brushing over the top of her head. Even though this was not new territory, her heart pounded loudly in her ears, and excitement and desire churned in her stomach.

"Get on your knees," he commanded hoarsely. "Christine—now—"

He had not yet directly asked her, having always waited for her to take the initiative the few times she had been brave enough to try. The unexpected request was made in a voice that sounded desperate enough for her to acquiesce.

Christine was still ambivalent about the whole act. While Erik had been right—it wasn't exactly pleasurable for her—it was exciting to see him so unguarded and passionate. Some of the sounds he had made were so oddly beautiful that she wondered how it was possible that they all came from a mortal man.

He was already so aroused that it didn't take long at all, and afterwards, he pushed the skirt of her dress up to her hips and made her come right there on the living room rug, his horrific face buried between her legs.

They lay on the floor, both breathing heavily. Absent-mindedly, Christine buried some fingers in her curls and massaged her head a little. Erik had pulled on her hair so hard during his climax that her scalp was throbbing. Not wanting him to collapse into a spiral of self-hatred, she hadn't said anything. And besides, she knew that she herself was sometimes guilty of pulling his hair a bit too enthusiastically.

It was very late, and the rug was thick and just comfortable enough to tempt her to fall asleep on the floor. She curled up on her side and tucked a hand under her cheek, yawning and closing her eyes. However, Erik lasted only another minute or so before sitting up with a pained groan.

"Is it your back?" she mumbled, blinking up at him sleepily.

He glanced down at her, still unmasked. "I am old," he complained. "It's horrible."

"You're not that old," she said, trying to be comforting.

He rolled his eyes. "How reassuring."

He didn't stay with her that night, claiming he had too much to do and ignoring her protests. Despite his absence, she slept soundly, exhausted from the day. When she woke the next morning, she rubbed her heavy eyes and stretched out her legs, her feet and scalp still a bit sore from yesterday.

After finally opening her eyes, she jumped. "Erik!" she said, pressing a hand over her racing heart. "You scared me. How long have you been standing there?"

He hadn't changed from the night before, but the mask was back on. His mouth was stretched into a thin line that signified unhappiness, and she was just about to ask him what was wrong when he held out an envelope to her.

"What is it?" she asked. "Another offer letter?"

Again, he didn't reply, and she quickly rubbed her eyes again, still trying to wake up fully. She sat up and took it from him, squinting down at it. Her heart dropped to her stomach at the familiar handwriting, and a quick glance at the return address confirmed it.

"I didn't…" she whispered shakily. She glanced up at him. "I haven't been writing to him, Erik. I swear it." His continued silence was starting to become concerning, and she swallowed, wishing she had a glass of water to wash the dry taste of sleep out of her mouth.

"You can throw it away," she said, holding it back out to him. He made no move to take it. "Please, Erik. You can have it back. I promise I never—you know I haven't been talking with him at all. Please."

"You are free from any and all obligations to me," he said hollowly, flatly. "You can communicate with whomever you please."

She stared up at him, but he wouldn't meet her gaze, instead looking at the floor. Slowly, with trembling fingers, she tore open the envelope and pulled out the letter. It was short, and she read it quickly, breathlessly.

"He's moving back to Paris," she said, shocked at the information. "At the end of the month. Wait—oh my god, that's in just a few days." Why had he waited until the last possible moment to tell her? What if the letter had arrived after he had left? She checked the small date stamped on the front of the envelope that indicated the date of postage. It had been mailed over three weeks ago. Realization dawned on her, and she glanced back up at Erik, who still refused to look her in the eye.

"Have there been any other letters you've kept?" she asked, doing her best to keep her voice from trembling. "From him or anyone else?"

He shook his head slightly.

She wanted to ask why, but she knew the answer to that already. At least he hadn't opened the letter. Instead she said, "Why are you giving it to me now?"

"Because you are very beautiful and very good," he said, his voice still empty. "And I am not."

It wasn't really an answer to her question, but she wasn't sure if she should push him, not when he was obviously so conflicted about giving her the letter at all. She scanned over it again, torn between surprise that Raoul had contacted her at all and worry about Erik and his reaction.

I wanted to say goodbye. I just felt that I should tell you, after everything we've been through. I don't expect an answer of any kind. I'm happy you're living your dream.

"Will you go with him?" Erik asked after several more moments of silence.

"Hmm?" she said distractedly, mentally going through her schedule for the next few days. "Go with—what? You mean to Paris? With Raoul?"

"Paris is a city much better suited to your beauty and talents," he said, almost whispering. His hands were curled into fists, his face pointed towards the ground, hiding himself from her view. "You are right to leave this horrid, ugly city and your horrid, ugly Erik—"

"Stop!" she said loudly, scrambling out of the bed at last. She stood right next to him and grabbed his arms to prevent him from leaving the room, peering up to see as much of his face as she could. "Of course I'm not going with Raoul," she said, much more gently. "Never. I could never leave the music, Erik. I've said that before."

"If it is not him, it will be another, some man who can give you—"

"No," she said. "There's no one else. There won't ever be anybody else."

He didn't believe her, she could tell. Not yet.

She silently debated with herself the rest of the day, wondering if she was crazy to even consider it. Even though Erik had said she could talk to whoever she wanted, she knew he didn't actually want her to. This would be difficult—maybe impossible—for him to understand. But she needed to do this. For herself and for Erik, to prove to them both that they were different. It wouldn't be like last time. And she would return to him, completely honest and open. No secrets this time, no lies.

Several drafts later, she sent the text in the early evening, after an afternoon of rehearsals.

Hi, it's Christine. I just got your letter. I can't believe you're moving. Do you have time to meet up before you go? I'd like to say goodbye.

The reply came less than thirty minutes later: Hey, can't believe I'm getting a normal text from you. Been a long time. Are you sure meeting up is a good idea?

Sitting on the sofa in the front room, she nervously chewed on her thumbnail and glanced up at Erik, who was reading a big, boring-looking book about music theory. He had been on edge all day, snappy and irritated, no doubt anxious about the letter and his own insecurities. She was relieved that he had chosen a quiet activity for the night instead of banging away for hours at the piano keys in frustration.

She sent the message: I want to apologize in person for how I acted last year. But I understand if you'd rather not see me.

Raoul didn't respond for over an hour, perhaps reluctant to agree. She couldn't blame him, though; she was making a strange, difficult request. They had already parted with a mutual understanding that it was forever. Why reopen old wounds?

I guess if you want to. I'll be downtown tomorrow afternoon, closing accounts and taking care of some other legal paperwork. Would that work for you?

Yes, she wrote back. She looked at Erik again, and when he glanced up at her, she smiled. His eyes softened slightly before he went back to his book. I'll see you tomorrow.

If she didn't know herself that she was being completely honest and truthful about where she was going and why, the look Erik gave her when she told him would have broken her heart into a thousand pieces.

"You are going to him," he murmured, physically turning from her slightly, as if to protect himself.

"I want to say goodbye," she said. "Nothing else will happen. I'll be gone for an hour or so, that's it. Then I'll come back."

When he didn't respond, didn't look at her, her worry began to turn into slight panic. "Erik? Are you okay? I promise I just want to say goodbye. I know you don't—I know it's hard for you to understand why. But this is important to—"

"Don't speak to me as if I were a child," he hissed suddenly, his eyes flashing. He stalked over to the office and whirled around to glare as he said nastily, "Go, have your little rendezvous with your handsome lover. I'm sure he will serenade you with lovely promises of Paris, and you will at last leave Erik, as you always should have."

"Don't just walk away—" she tried, but he was already locking himself up in the office, locking all of her reassurances out. She marched over to the door and pounded on it with her fist, knowing he wouldn't respond but needing to vent her frustration out all the same.

"I'm going to say goodbye to an old friend!" she shouted. "And then I'll come back to you, like I always do! I hope you have fun sulking for no reason at all!" No reply came. She gave the door a kick for good measure, grabbed her bag, and left.

She was so upset by Erik's reaction and how they had parted that it wasn't until she was standing outside of the café, waiting for Raoul, that she remembered just why she was there. She was going to see Raoul again, probably for the last time. Her throat was suddenly very dry, and she grabbed at her bag nervously, too scared to look too closely at anyone approaching to enter the café.

He arrived just as she was starting to have second thoughts, his hair golden and shiny in the late summer afternoon. Christine opened her mouth to say something in greeting but came up with nothing. She stared, gaping like an idiot.

"Hi," he said, a tight smile quickly passing over his lips. He gestured towards the door. "Want to go in?"

"Uh. Okay."

They were seated at a table in the back corner, Raoul against the wall. She sat facing away from the rest of the café and its patrons, meaning there was nowhere else for her to look but directly at Raoul. Either that, or she could stare at the puke-green wall behind him. Who had ever decided to paint anything in that color?

She was given a few minutes of reprieve by a bubbly young waitress, who was obviously smitten with Raoul immediately. That happened often, Christine remembered. While they were dating, such instances had made her very jealous and extremely insecure. As always, Raoul was nothing but polite and friendly, ordering a black coffee for himself. He looked at Christine expectantly, and she cleared her throat.

"Um," she said stupidly, the menu untouched in front of her. "Tea?"

The waitress raised an eyebrow and glanced towards Raoul, as if trying to signify what an idiot his date was, but Raoul had pulled out his phone and was frowning at it, not paying attention to the waitress at all. With a disappointed little sigh, she picked up the menus and wandered off.

"Sorry," Raoul said, holding up his phone briefly to signify what he was apologizing about. "I have so much stuff to do before I move, it's hard not to multitask."

"Sure," she said. "Of course." She pulled on a curl awkwardly. "So you got a promotion at work, right? That's why you're moving?"

"Yeah, I'm being transferred," he said, tapping out something on his phone. "To the offices in Paris. It's a good fit, obviously. I think my boss almost cried when I told him I was interested in the position."

"Mm," she said vaguely. "And are your parents staying here? Your siblings?"

He waved his hand, as if uninterested in that conversation. "I'm not sure. We'll get it figured out."

There was another minute of silence while he looked at his phone. Christine resisted the urge to pull hers out of the bag, just for something to do. Instead she idly played with one of the napkins, not wanting to be rude and interrupt whatever he was doing but wishing he would hurry up with it.

"Sorry," he said again, putting his phone away at last. "Had to tell my old secretary where some files were stored." He straightened a little and then looked at her with the strangest expression. It was clear he wasn't exactly happy to see her, but there wasn't any anger or animosity on his face.

"I was surprised you wanted to meet up," he then said.

She nodded. "I know. Thanks for saying yes. I wanted to…apologize." It came out very lamely, so she quickly amended it: "I mean, for how I acted last year. It was wrong of me to treat you like that. I'm sorry."

He continued to look at her with the same expression, the only reaction to her apology being the way his lips softened just slightly.

"So are you going to tell me?" he then said. "What was really going on?"

She was just about to reply and insist that she hadn't been lying about the "retreat" when the waitress returned with the drinks, passing Raoul his coffee with a winning smile. Christine's tea was plunked down in front of her without so much as a glance.

"Let me know if you need anything else," the waitress said to Raoul. "Anything at all, okay?" She sauntered off, and Christine turned to watch her go, unable to help herself. The overt attempts at getting Raoul's attention were starting to get a little ridiculous.

"I don't have a lot of time," Raoul then said, somewhat pointedly. Christine quickly righted herself in her chair, her face warm with embarrassment.

"So?" he pressed. "That's all? Anything else you want to say?"

To buy herself some more time, she took a sip of her tea. It was lukewarm and tasted like grass. Then she set it down and forced herself to look in his eyes.

"Things were really complicated last year," she said. "That's all I can say. I'm sorry. I know it's not a good answer."

He raised his eyebrows. "Were you seeing someone else?" he asked bluntly. "When we were meeting up over the fall?"

Christine nodded, blushing furiously.

"Is it the same guy who gave you that ring? The 'friend?'"

"Yes." Her voice cracked a little.

"Are you still seeing him?"

She wanted to sink into the floor in shame. "I am."

"Jesus, Christine." To his credit, he didn't sound or look angry, but there was definitely an edge to his tone that made it apparent he wasn't happy about what she was saying. If anything, he seemed…disappointed. "Does he know about…what happened?"

After taking another gulp of the horrible tea, she didn't meet his gaze as she nodded. It was hard to think about what had happened the night Erik had confronted her with the letters. Yet another difficult time to file away in her memory.

"And does he know where you are now?"

"Yes," she said, lifting her chin slightly. "I told him I wanted to say goodbye. He knows everything about our…past."

Raoul peered at her closely, frowning. "So I guess it wasn't that complicated, then, what happened last fall."

"It was complicated," she said firmly, insistently. "But I am sorry I involved you."

He shook his head, looking at the table as he said, "Whatever you say."

The waitress reappeared, asking in a sweet voice if Raoul needed anything else, and she pouted slightly when he said he only needed the check.

"These damn waitresses," he said in quiet annoyance after the girl had walked away. "I try to be nice, but sometimes it's just too much. Jesus, as if I need a felony charge two days before I leave the country."

The tension broke slightly, and Christine laughed.

"Poor Raoul," she teased. "It must be hard to be that good-looking."

"Torture." He smiled at her, the first genuine one of the afternoon, and Christine realized, with a little jolt of shock, that she felt…nothing. When he had smiled at her like that in the past, her stomach would somersault, or she would blush in happy flattery. Now it was nothing but a smile from a handsome man. He was no longer her crush, or her boyfriend, or someone she desperately yearned would rescue her, or…anything, really. An old acquaintance. Someone from a different life.

Despite his protests, she paid for their drinks. "It's my goodbye present to you," she said, handing over some cash to the waitress. The waitress made one last attempt, beaming at Raoul as he stood, but he didn't so much as glance her way as he led the way from the table and to the exit. Christine was momentarily tempted to give some kind of apologetic expression to the waitress but stopped herself when she remembered her grass water.

He held the door open for her, and she stepped out onto the sidewalk, the late afternoon sun a dazzling orange haze. There were a few moments of awkward silence, neither of them knowing how to say goodbye.

"I meant it, you know," he said abruptly, sticking his hands in his pockets. "When I said I'm happy you're living your dream. I don't really get…all that. But you seem happy. So I'm glad."

"I am happy," she said. "I hope you're happy back in Paris."

"Me, too. I think I'm ready for a change. I'm ready to say goodbye to this place." He looked around the street, his eyes scanning over the buildings and storefronts and people meandering up and down the sidewalk. Then he looked back at Christine. "Thanks for the drink."

"Hopefully it was good," she said. "My tea was awful."

He laughed. "So was the coffee."

She wanted to hug him goodbye, but he didn't remove his hands from his pockets, a subtle sign that that wasn't something he wanted.

"Goodbye, Christine," he said.

"Goodbye," she replied.

He turned and walked up the sidewalk, quickly disappearing into the crowd. She stood there for several moments longer, a weight she hadn't even been aware of lifting itself from her heart. It was over, then. Done.

She turned and walked in the opposite direction, back towards the Opera House, its roof glinting in the orange glow of the sun. Erik was there below. She would go to him, showing him yet again that she would always return. No doubt he would still be upset.

Words from months ago drifted through her head.

Whenever my husband is unhappy, there are some pretty foolproof ways to make him feel better…Oh, you know. Guys are all the same.

Christine smiled.