No. No. NOOOOOOO! It couldn't be. That shining gem in her hand could not be what he believed it to be. And yet, he knew his eyes were not deceiving him as he slumped down against the ropes and fell to his knees upon the wooden planks of the catwalk. She held a diamond engagement ring in her hand; a promise to be the wife of that boy, that Raoul! He felt the hot tears seeping beneath his mask, and the shaking of his body, yet he was not filled with grief, but rage. How dare that boy believe he could swoop in and take his beloved. And Christine…how could she betray him like this. How could she scorn the love of her angel?

Rising and gripping the ropes so tightly, he could hear the low creak as the fibers were punished beneath his fist. 'She would pay', he though, wild eyes looking down upon Christine; 'they would all pay for deceiving him' he added as he whipped his head away from the two embracing females.

"But please Meg, you must keep it a secret. I want to keep it a secret until my career is established, so I am not thought to be a harlot simply marrying the rich Vicomte" Christine pleaded to her, her thumbs pressing into her palms.

Meg nodded slightly, "Yes of course Christine, of course." Slipping her hands out of Christine's, she heard the 'thank you' that followed as she turned away and walked quickly to the other stage wing and grabbed on to one of the ropes in the far corner that controlled the curtains. In the dark, she held on for fear of falling to the ground. Those eyes. They were so full of hate. So full of darkness and fury. And so full of despair. Oh God, those eyes which she stared at until they vanished from her view and she had to blink several times to see that they were truly gone. But they were burned into her retinas, eyes pleading that what they saw was not real.

Gasping, she tightened her hold on the ropes until her hands locked up and she felt hysteria clenching at her chest and clawing at her throat. Placing a hand on her now queasy stomach, she forced herself to take deep breaths in the corner and shook at the tears which threatened to fall.

She did this for a good minute before she was finally able to breathe normally again and unclenched her hands, with the sound of ropes creaking in their wake. Meg looked down at her hands to see the coils imprinted upon her palms. The world began to function around her again and the sound of the opening chords to the next act reached her ears. She turned to see Christine smiling at her dresser and fluffing out her skirt. She pinches her cheeks so seem flushed and rushes on stage worried about the love potion that has gone wrong as she joins Alexis on stage, making a trio with Wells.

The small first cry was already too late. As others in the theater noticed it, Meg had heard the snap of rope and the whir of the pulley's wheels as one of the sandbags holding up the backdrop swung in an arc towards its target. In seconds, the sandbag throttled Christine in the stomach and sends her flying back on to the floor as the backdrop falls and also lands on top of her. She feels some people backstage push against her shoulder as they run to help, but she can only stare. Releasing the breath she did not know she had been holding, Meg began to sprint towards where Christine lay when she notices it.

The dark black and red backdrop which had been behind her in her dance sequence is now the backdrop on the stage and a body swings back and forth across in front of it, a noose around its neck. But it is not a human body, no. It is a mannequin. Dressed in a white dress and veil and splattered with red paint. There is no doubt in her mind who is responsible and Meg runs as fast as she can back to her room, away from the panic, away from the disaster, and away from the Phantom's wrath.

The door slams and Meg leaps towards her bureau and opening the door just a bit, she slides in and curls into a ball in the corner. She holds a hand to her mouth to quiet her sobs as she rocks back and forth.

Her mother and Adeline found her later, in her secret hideaway since childhood. Parts of her hair stick to her face with salty tears and her dress crumpled. Sliding her out, they wash her face and put her to bed before retiring to their own beds.

Meg pressed her forehead against the cool glass, feeling the imprint of the ironwork on her skin. Cool marble lay beneath her, yet she relished in the shivers that ran through her. It made her feel alive.

She had awoken early that morning, and heard about what she had missed. Christine had not been seriously hurt, but would need a few days to recover because of her sore muscles. The Vicomte had asked her to stay at his home, but knowing the repercussions even if they were engaged in secret, she declined. The managers claimed that the accident was because of the age of the rope and they had simply given out under the weight of the backdrop. They claimed the mannequin must be the work of a couple of pranksters.

No one believed them. They all knew who had really done it. But they did not understand what it meant. A bride covered in blood just seemed grotesque to them, but to the people who knew, which as far as she knew, there were only four people who knew of the engagement, it was terrifying.

Rehearsals had gone on as planned, but the cast was uneasy as the backdrop was once again lifted into place with new, sturdy rope. In superstition, they constantly looked behind them to make sure that it stayed in place.

Meg had danced. If that was what you called dancing. It was perfect, but it was done mechanically, not emotionally. She could not be there emotionally.

Now, she longingly looked towards the streets, still dimly lit by gas lamps hanging above the cobblestones. She could not see far, only a few lights, the rest hidden around street corners. When the moon was full and the sky cloudless, she could see many of the rooftops in Paris. Tonight however, the moon was just a sliver and gave off little light. The lantern beside her was turned down low as to not waste the precious kerosene.

Leaning her shoulder against the glass, she shivered through the thin tulle of her dressing gown, but she needed to feel something. Anything to take her thoughts away from the darkness inside her mind. The long skirt flowed around her making her look like a pale flower among the dark and winding metal.

It was the shadow that gave him away, and Meg would never know for sure if he did it on purpose or if her eyes just happened to catch it, but she knew he was there. She felt the air become heavy and still.

"Are you here to harm me as well?" Meg mused to him, eyes beginning to smart with oncoming tears. "Because if you are, please just do it already."

She felt the whisper of his cloak as it touched her other shoulder and again shivered at the two different sensations on her sides. A cream colored envelope landed gracefully in her lap. Touching it lightly and feeling the slight bumpy texture, she flipped it over and saw the unmistakable stamp of the Phantom: a skull made up of red wax. An unmistakable sign that what the letter contained was not pleasant.

"You will give this letter to…" He began.

"I will not," Meg said suddenly and harshly, surprising even herself, but continued. "I will not bear a message of hate to her. I am not yours to bully."

"Even though you owe me a favor?" He mused, the words coming out dryly with a hint of sarcasm.

Her eyes smarted as her temper flared. "This is a favor I cannot fulfill." She said softly and turned away.

Suddenly she found her head twisted back around and the painful dig of cold leather on her chin. Holding her chin up to tilt her face towards his mask, he growled "Do not turn away from me when I am talking to you!"

"Get your hands off of me!" She snarled, trying to pull away and feeling his fingers grasp her all the tighter.

"What will you do? Hurt me? That's all you do, is hurt people!" She stood then, pushing his gloved hand away. Her petite size and her ashen appearance were in stark contrast to his pitch black robe and hood.

"Please." She whispered. "Just let them be. They are blind in their love. They do not see the consequences."

"What consequences? She hopes to marry a Victomte, which would make her a Viscountess. She has but to gain." He remarked snidely.

Meg shook her head for a moment. "She is a commoner. Barely that. She is a working woman. A singer." Knowing she would infuriate him, but angry at Christine as well, she continued. "She was a ballet rat not 3 months ago and now she is prima donna. They do not think she gained it. They just believe that she bedded the right amount of men. The ones with power and wealth. To them she is nothing but a common whore."

"How dare you speak of her so!" He yelled, the sound reverberating through the small space.

Standing straighter, knowing that she had the upper hand in this moment, Meg continued. "They will never accept her. She is not one of them. She was born a commoner. No amount of jewels or dresses or wealth will matter. They will see through it. And she will become an outcast. The wealthy will not want a commoner, and the commoners will not want someone of wealth. She will be but the dumb, pretty singer on the arm of a Victomte who had the unfortunate luck of marrying her."

"You speak out of turn!" He growled.

"I speak the truth. I am better off than most. I do not admire the women of workhouses or sweatshops. But many of them have husbands and children. I am unattached and live under the same roof as men. I was branded a whore as soon as I stepped on that stage." Meg whispered, a tear escaping, quickly brushed away by her hand. She did not want to appear weak in front of the man who wanted her to feel this way. She willed for herself to have courage as she glared at the ironwork in front of her. "Christine is no different."

"She is so much more than just a dancer or a singer." Erik scoffed.

"But not in their eyes." Meg quickly responded.

Silence settled between them and she rested her back against the doorpost and looked out towards the street, dark thoughts clouding her mind.

"You will melt through the iron if you stare any harder."

"Then I will be free from this cage."

"Why would a pretty bird such as yourself want to leave your safe cage?" He remarked in a hushed voice.

Meg's eyes widened at the thought that the Phantom had made a mistake and called her pretty, yet shaking it off she knew her answer: "I want to fly." She stated simply.

"Spread my own wings and choose my own path. I never had a choice whether or not I wanted to be a ballerina. But I can choose where it will take me. Russia, Scotland, England, the Orient. Anywhere. This is the only place I have known." She turned to him then, "It will most likely be the only place I know."

Silence fell upon them both, and she only heard her own breathing in those moments.

"I will not deliver your letter monsieur. Enough wings have been clipped of late." She walked past him then, and felt time stand still as she was right next to him. His face showed nothing. The upper half covered by the white mask and his lips and chin in shadow. She expected at any minute for him to shoot out his arm and catch her, but he did not and she exhaled. She did not look back, for she knew he would no longer be there.

Climbing the stairs to her room, she closed the door softly as not to wake Adeline. Shedding her dressing gown and hanging it off the post of her bed, she slipped into the sheets. Tonight she would not sleep well. Her heart was too heavy.

He turned. Something he had never did and watched the young woman walk silently towards the hallway that lead to the dormitories. She was a believable ghost. Anyone who saw her that night would say so. Her pale skin and hair, paired with her white and long dressing gown made her appear ethereal. He watched until she turned a corner and clenched his fist that was not holding the letter.

How dare she? A favor was owed and it would be repaid. And her words about his Christine were a slander to her very name. His Christine was not meant for this hovel of a place. She was meant to be wanted and sought after so that people could hear just one note fall from her beautiful mouth.

Shaking off the exchange, he straightened his cloak around him and sought the hidden trap which would take him up to the dormitories. If little Giry was not going to cooperate, her mother surely would. She was afraid of him, he knew, but that power was essential for getting things done. He wondered what he would have to do to crush that little ballerina under the palm of his hand.

She was beginning to get in his way too often and that only led to disaster, he thought as he looked back once more to ensure that no one was around and closed the secret wall behind him. He did not sleep that night, like most nights. He was haunted by dark brown curls morphing into soft blonde hair.

I am a college student, which often sucks. I have no time to read let alone write, but I'm trying guys. I really am. 3