Christine

The airport terminal buzzed with activity, as travelers hurriedly made their way to their respective gates. Amidst the chaos, a young woman sat alone on a worn wooden bench, her delicate features highlighted by the soft glow of the overhead lights. Her eyes were fixed on a ticket that bore the name “Christine Daaé.” As her gaze shifted from the ticket to her cell phone, tears welled up in Christine's eyes, cascading down her cheeks like tiny crystals. With trembling hands, she scrolled through an album of photographs that captured moments of her life intertwined with that of an older man. Each image told a story, a tale of love and loss, etched into the very fabric of her being.

The last photograph showed Christine and the man she called “papa” in a hospital room, their eyes filled with a mixture of pain and acceptance. It was a poignant reminder of the final moments they shared together, a memory that etched deeply into her soul. The weight of his absence bore down on her, leaving her feeling adrift in a sea of grief.

Through her tears, Christine's lips moved in a silent melody, a heartrending song of longing and sorrow. Her voice, barely a whisper, carried the weight of a thousand unspoken words, reaching out to the heavens in search of solace. The melody was a bittersweet tribute to the man who had shaped her life, a plea for strength to carry on in the face of overwhelming loss.

In the midst of her melancholy reverie, a bustling airport employee approached the boarding desk, his voice amplified by the intercom system. “Flight 1909 to Chicago is boarding now,” he announced, breaking the spell that had enveloped Christine. With a deep breath, she hastily tucked her cell phone into her pocket, as if hiding away the memories that had brought her to tears.

Christine reached for her carry-on bag, its weight seemed lighter than before. Determination etched into her features, she rose from the bench and made her way towards the gate, her steps echoing with a newfound resolve. As she approached the boarding pass scanner, she glanced back one last time, bidding a silent farewell to the memories that had consumed her just moments before.

Christine settled into her seat on the plane, the gentle hum of the engines provided a comforting backdrop as she reached into her bag and retrieved her earbuds. As she plugged them into her phone, a melodic blend of classical and rock music filled her ears, transporting her to a realm where emotions could be expressed without words.

Leaning back against the plush seat, Christine gazed out of the window at the bustling airport. People scurried about, their lives intersecting for brief moments before diverging again. The anticipation of departure hung in the air, a palpable energy that made her pulse quicken.

As the plane slowly filled up with passengers, Christine's attention was drawn back to her phone. A message illuminated the screen, revealing the name “Meg.” A small smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she opened the message.

‘Christine, I am glad you agreed to come stay with me in Chicago. I talked to my Aunt, and she said you can start work at her new opera house whenever you're ready. And, you'll get to meet my boyfriend, Raoul!”

Christine's fingers danced across the screen as she typed her response, her thoughts overflowing. “Thank you, Meg. I'm surprised your Aunt is getting back into opera, especially after losing everything in the Paris fire – including Erik and my mother, her lead singer.”

A pause followed, as Meg's reply materialized on the screen. “It is all she knows, Christine. She's determined to rebuild what was lost, and she's even hanging up the old chandelier as a memorial for your mother and Erik.”

Christine tapped out her reply, her fingers caressing the keys as if trying to convey her gratitude through the digital medium. “That's... incredibly thoughtful, Meg.”

The weight of grief pressed upon Christine as Meg's next message appeared. “I'm sorry, Christine. You've already lost so much – your mother five years ago, and now your father.”

A sigh escaped Christine's lips, a mixture of sadness and resignation. “I lost my mother to opera long before her death. She placed singing above all else in her life.” As she finished typing her response, the announcement came over the intercom, signaling the plane's imminent departure.

With a final glance at her phone, Christine slipped it into her pocket. The engines roared to life, vibrating through the aircraft as it taxied down the runway. The familiar sensation of liftoff enveloped her, and she closed her eyes, ready to embark on a new chapter in her life. In a few short hours, the plane would touch down in Chicago, where she would reunite with Meg and begin a new life.

Rahul

Rahul stood amidst the opulent surroundings of the private benefactors brunch at the grand Opera House. The room was filled with the elite of society, their elegant attire blending seamlessly with the luxurious decor. As he glanced around, he nodded politely at the other guests, his demeanor poised and composed. Suddenly, his attention was captivated by a shadow that danced across the ceiling, momentarily obscuring his view. He looked up, but the shadow disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.

Just then, an older man approached Rahul, extending his hand in greeting. The man's eyes surveyed Meg, Rahul's companion, with an appraising gaze before finally shifting to Rahul himself. With a hint of a warning in his voice, the man remarked, “She is very remarkable. Let's hope you don't screw it up this time.”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

Meg, undeterred, flashed a radiant smile at the old man and replied, “He is doing well, so far.”

Rahul nodded in agreement, his expression was a mix of determination and a desire to prove himself. “Yes, father,” he responded, his tone laced with a hint of defiance. “I would hate to disappoint you.” And with those words, he abruptly turned and stormed off, leaving his father and Meg behind.

As Rahul made his exit through a discreet side door, Meg's gaze lingered on him for a moment, concern etched upon her features. Turning her attention back to Rahul's father, Meg's voice carried a hint of assurance. “Rumors say that your friend is coming to work here,” she began. “It would be a wonder if she possesses even a fraction of her mother's enchanting voice.”

Leaning in closer, as if sharing a secret, Meg continued, her words carrying a sense of genuine knowledge. “But trust me, I have known Christine for many years. I can personally attest that she wants nothing to do with the stage. She needed to escape the confines of New York, if only for a while.”

Rahul stepped cautiously through the dimly lit basement, his footsteps echoing against the cold, bricked walls. The air was heavy with a dampness that seemed to seep into his bones. As he reached the end of the tunnel, he pushed open a heavy steel door, revealing a small, mysterious room.

His eyes were immediately drawn to a figure sitting in front of an old, weathered piano. The man's presence commanded attention, his one side of the face strikingly beautiful, almost god-like. But the other side was covered by mask, hiding the scars of a past that had left its mark on his very soul.

The room felt suffocating, suffused with an aura of melancholy. The man's posture was slumped, his fingers resting lightly on the piano keys. His eyes, filled with a haunting emptiness, seemed to reflect the depths of his sorrow. Rahul approached slowly, drawn to the enigmatic figure before him.

“We need some music before our first show,” Rahul said, his voice carrying a sense of urgency.

Erik, his fingers poised above the piano keys, nodded in understanding. As the room fell into a silence broken only by the faint sounds of anticipation, Erik's fingers began to dance across the keys.

“I am trying,” Erik whispered, his voice barely audible. “I need a muse.”

Rahul stood behind Erik, his hand gently caressing Erik's back, his lips tracing a path along Erik's neck. With a soft whisper, Rahul declared, “I will fulfill your every desire, my love.”

Erik's fingers danced across the keys of the grand piano, filling the room with a haunting melody. The notes reverberated through the air, intertwining with the tension that hung between him and Rahul. As Rahul's lips traced the delicate curve of Erik's neck, an electric current surged through Erik's veins, a dangerous temptation that threatened to consume them both.

In the midst of their stolen moment, Erik's voice broke the silence, his words laden with a mix of longing and apprehension. “What would your father say?” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the haunting tune.

Rahul's touch abruptly withdrew, a sudden push against Erik's chest as if the physical distance could erase the emotional turmoil that enveloped them. His voice was strained, filled with frustration and resignation. “Why must you ruin everything?”

Erik

In the dimly lit room, the atmosphere was charged with a mixture of desire and uncertainty. The large canopy bed with its intriguing red drapes stood as a symbol of the intense emotions that would soon be unleashed. Erik, laid back on the bed, surrendered to the hunger with which Rahul unbuttoned his shirt, their lips crashing together in a passionate and desperate kiss.

But in the midst of this raw moment, Erik uttered those three words that held so much weight: “I love you.”

Rahul, taken aback, paused and lifted his head to meet Erik's gaze. His voice was laced with a hint of hesitation as he responded, “That wasn't part of the arrangement.”

Feeling the sting of rejection, Erik pushed Rahul away, a mix of anger and hurt flashing in his eyes. “I see,” he murmured, his voice heavy with disappointment. “I am only transactional to you.”

Erik began to button his shirt, as if attempting to shield himself from the pain of vulnerability. But Rahul, recognizing the gravity of the moment, gently pulled him closer, his touch a mixture of tenderness and longing. “Erik, are you sure you want love?” he asked, his voice filled with a trace of concern.

In that fleeting moment of introspection, Erik's response held the weight of a lifetime of yearning. “I think everyone wants some form of love,” he replied.

Rahul's fingers delicately trace the contours of Erik's hair, his touch tender and filled with longing. With a trembling voice, he confesses, “Fine, I love you, Erik.”

But instead of reciprocating the sentiment, Erik's eyes narrow, brimming with anger and hurt. His voice sharp and cold, he retorts, “Don’t say it like it's an obligation. You know what, forget it. I think it's best if you come back later.” In a moment of frustration, Erik grabs Rahul's discarded shirt from the floor and hurls it towards him.

Rahul, now clad in his shirt, tries to mend the rift between them. He takes a step closer, his voice filled with sincerity, “Erik, I do love you.”

But Erik, clearly annoyed, storms off towards his piano. The keys are struck with force, producing a discordant melody that echoes through the room. Rahul turns away and storms towards the exit, his footsteps heavy with the weight of their shattered connection.

Erik's fingers trembled as they hovered over the piano keys, his heart heavy with the weight of disappointment. His music, once a solace, now seemed to mock him, its melodies echoing his own shattered dreams. Tears streamed down his face, mingling with the sweat that clung to his forehead. In that moment of despair, the door to his room swung open, the creaking hinges breaking the silence.

Startled, Erik turned his gaze towards the intruder. It was Meg her eyes filled with a mix of frustration and hurt. “You should be sorry,” she spat, her voice dripping with venom. “None of the songs you wrote fit my voice.”

Erik, still clutching his notebook, sighed heavily. “That is because you can't sing, Cousin,” he said, his words laced with a painful truth.

Meg's fist connected with his arm in a burst of anger, but he barely flinched. “You said you would make me the lead singer in the next show,” she accused, her voice trembling with disappointment.

“Yes, I did,” Erik admitted, his voice tinged with regret. “But at the time, you claimed to have a remarkable singing voice, and now... now we need someone with strength and power to open the opera house in a few weeks.” The weight of his words hung heavy in the air, the bitter reality of their situation looming over them both.