Disclaimer: All credits go to Gaston Leroux for the original novel, Andrew Lloyd Webber for the stage and adaptation, and finally Joel Schumacher for the movie. I seek to make no profit on this. Please don't sue!

Notes:

Be warned that there is severe Raoul bashing in the fic. I did not like him in the book and I liked him even less in the movie. Although I will attempt to portray him in a realistic manner, I may get carried away sometimes.

This story is mostly based upon the version of Phantom seen in the 2004 movie with elements from the novels.

And finally, apologies because the Phantom does not actually appear in this chapter much. But I promise he will be included in the next chapter!

For the moment, I just want to get some good Raoul!abuse out of the way.

Chapter One

I couldn't let it end this way. Not like this.

I had decided to go back to the labyrinth, just one last time. To know if I really had the strength to do this. To understand if I could really abandon him. My teacher. My ghost. My friend. My angel.

The look on his face when I had sung out the word hate to him still wounded me. It cut through my own heart, as if he had been the one who despised me; the one who hated me. It had been another in a series of betrayals, but it had not been my last. I knew that in the kiss I had promised him everything, and in return, he had given me even more.

He was truly a fallen angel, descended from heaven. The cruelty of humans had driven him to this. They had herded the darkness into his soul. I had fooled myself into thinking that I understood him – that I comprehended why he thirsted for blood so much. But it wasn't true. I had kissed him because I had been afraid. Because I had wanted to run into the safety of my dear Raoul's arms and escape him. Escape his eyes. Escape his face; his cruelty; his pain.

His very human pain.

I hid there in the shadows; waited until he chanced to look in my direction. When he finally turned miserable eyes upon me, I nearly wavered in my resolve and fled. Slowly, I stepped forward. In my hand was the ring he had given back to me. I almost gave a hesitant smile, but knew that it would be quite inappropriate given the circumstances.

The look of sudden hope in his eyes nearly destroyed me.

Wordlessly, I took his hand and placed the plain band in his trembling palm. Closing my eyes, I wrapped his fingers around it and grasped his hand tightly, just for a moment.

But when I tried to retract my hand, he shook his head slightly and returned the ring to me. "It means nothing to me now," he whispered. "Sell it if you like."

When I stepped away, I pretended not to see the two lone tears that had escaped from beneath his closed eyelids.

Then I fled.

I had truly left him behind forever.

I had betrayed him once again.

Five Years Later

I sat before my ornate mirror, brushing out my long brown tresses with a gilded brush. My reflection sparkled back at me through the expensive glass, mocking in its beauty. The small dressing room was decorated with lush flowers, reminiscent of my days in the opera. Then, too, the dressing room had been replete with flowery gifts from admirers who had come to hear me enchant them with my voice.

But no longer. Occasionally I would catch myself humming a familiar tune, but a look from Raoul, and I would be silenced.

"Christine, we'll be late!"

His voice echoed throughout our majestic house, urging me to hurry. My dear husband appeared in the threshold suddenly, "Christine, what is the matter? You're not even dressed yet!"

I fought back a sigh and turned to him patiently. "Raoul, the party does not begin for another three hours." I noted that he was already fully dressed and tugging his pristine white gloves on.

He paused for a moment, a frown in place. "Christine, I expect you to be ready within the hour." Then he swept out of my room.

One of my maids who had been hovering nervously in the background hesitantly approached me. "Shall I fetch your gown, my lady?"

I nodded, "Yes, Cecile. Thank you."

My gaze went to the empty threshold where Raoul had just stood. I began to wonder what exactly had happened to us in the last five years of our marriage. It had started out so well; we had been so incredibly in love. And then, after a year, it had begun to spiral downward and out of control.

When I went with Raoul, I had given up everything. My singing; my career as a star; all had been abandoned just for him. At first, I had believed that I was just punishing myself; that I would keep my voice locked away for all eternity.

Then the desire to sing had come back. You can never truly hold back art or lust, no matter how hard you try.

Once, just once, I had climbed to the roof of our mansion and lifted my voice up in song. The neighbors probably thought I was crazy; few of them knew that I had once been a praised voice of the opera. After the accident, Raoul had removed us to the other side of Paris, where he often kept me hidden from most of the public. It almost seemed as if he feared something ill would befall me.

But I knew better, and I had not feared to sing once more. But then Raoul heard me. He had rushed up onto the roof and hurriedly clapped a rough hand over my mouth.

"What are you doing?" He had demanded this of me, fury etched into his profile.

I had stared back at him, my eyes wide. At the time I had said nothing. Since then, I had not sung a single note.

Cecile patiently helped me into my gown, stuffing me into a confection of blue satin and lace ribbons. I nearly protested at the luxury of it, being accustomed to more simple attire that I was comfortable with. I ached to simply don a white, silk robe as I had in the old days, and run about with the ballet. My thoughts turned back to my old life once again, and I suddenly missed my dear friend Meg. Since Raoul had brought me into the social circles of Paris, I had not discovered any true friends. I was too far removed from the high society that he indulged himself in so frequently. True, I was often described as one of the most beautiful ladies in Paris, but I was still young and also reclusive. Did they think I was blind to the hushed whispers that traveled between lips, hidden by dainty fans?

I gasped as Cecile wrenched on the lacings to my corset. Painfully, I sucked in my breath and attempted to ignore the unpleasant tightness of the dress. Cecile muttered an apology to me, but I was deaf to her words. I craned my neck to inspect my reflection and adopted a dour smile. I did indeed look lovely, but the beauty was merely superficial. Beneath my satin skirts and painted face, I was screaming for release. This was not the life Raoul had promised me: this endless string of parties and functions. He had deceived me into thinking that I could actually be happy here.

"Now, let me fix up your hair," Cecile was rubbing her palms against her apron. "Shall we sweep it up tonight?"

I fingered my curling tresses and after a moment of debate, shook my head. "No. Let's leave it down tonight." I knew this was rather inappropriate; after a certain age, women were expected to always pin their hair up neatly. But tonight, I decided to defy convention. They all whispered about me anyway; what was the true harm?

"Christine!"

Cecile glanced nervously at the door. "You better hurry, my lady, before he gets into one of his tempers."

Yes, Raoul was often in one of his tempers these days. I suppose it came naturally with wanting to be like the rest of the stingy, money-obsessed business men of our day. For not only was he a count now (a title bestowed upon him for his supposedly brave role in defeating the Opera Ghost), but also a partner in a wine business. When he wasn't at one of the orchards in the south of France, he was on 'business' in Italy. But I always knew better.

I had ceased to amuse him shortly after that fateful year 1870. I had also failed to provide him with a child, which hadn't come from lack of trying – especially on his part. These days I usually just avoided him as much as possible in the hopes that he would take up with a mistress when night came. It was a clichéd story, really. He had simply discarded an old love for an enthralling new one: swept me aside for money.

We had been so in love once.

I made my way down the spiraling staircase and into the reception hall where my husband waited impatiently for me. As I studied him, I could not help but note everything about him that irritated me: that stupid swagger of his; that loud, nasal voice aimed for all to hear so that he could impress. I hated the way he cut his hair now; short and slicked back with enough oil to keep one hundred wheel axles in excellent condition for the next century or so.

During times like these, I always caught myself thinking back to five years ago. Sometimes the events of 1870 seemed almost unreal to me; almost as if everything had been imagined, and there had been no Opera Ghost at all. Most of the time, I even believed that everything had been just a dream. After all, how could the outcome of everything have been so horrid?

What had Raoul really done? He hadn't saved me. I had been forced to save both of us as he struggled against the moat gate, his neck tangled within a noose. With a simple tug of a hand, his life could have ended right then and there. He was no hero, truly. Just a rich windbag who had seen a prize and coveted it.

I had been that prize; special, because when I sang, even the clouds stopped their journeys in the sky for just a moment to listen. Raoul had not even noticed me when I was a simple flower girl in the ballet; it was not until I became exceptional that he even condescended to look upon me.

It had not been so with my Opera Ghost. He alone had seen me when I seemed nothing special. He had cared for and watched over me when my father had died. He had given me the talent which had so enraptured Raoul that night. But in the end, I had betrayed him and lost everything. I wondered now why I had been so blind. God help me, but I had ruined so much more than my own life.

I knew that going back to anything would be impossible. The Opera Populaire was no more than rubble now. Most of its members had probably drifted off to another theater. Meg was already a rising star, renowned for her beautiful skill in the ballet. I wanted desperately to visit a show and watch her dance.

But Raoul had expressly forbidden that we have anything more to do with the theater, opera, or ballet. I had less freedom than his servants, really. How could he do this to me, when my soul ached for the fine arts, with every single breath I took?

I was nothing special to Raoul now because all of the fire and spirit had been beaten out of me. It had been taken away from me by Raoul himself; it was his fault that I no longer entertained him; that I no longer held any mystery for him. I was a useless wife, with no children to give to him and no other skill except to lounge about day by day with an idle book.

I longed for life. I longed for love – for true passion and lust. Not the youthful infatuation that I had shared with Raoul. It had been charming once, but in time, we had both grown up. Raoul realized that he did not need love at all, and I realized that I needed something more cultured; something more refined.

We rode in our carriage in complete silence. Raoul was nervously tugging at his gloves and I knew that it was because he had to make a good impression before the party upon another important business man in the wine market. He was supposed to be some famous Italian from Rome and at the top of the wine industry. I merely pondered how I was going to occupy myself for the course of the evening. Raoul only used me when he needed an escort in order to look good for the Paris socialites.

He was running a hand through his hair anxiously. I hated how blond his hair was; it had gotten unnaturally blonder over the years. I fought the urge to tear his hair out in shreds. He treated me less than dirt. All I wanted was to introduce him to the joys of a pistol in his mouth.

When the carriage pulled to a stop, he clambered out stiffly and grudgingly held out his hand to let me down, almost as if it were an unpleasant chore such as mucking out the stables.

Daintily, I accepted and flounced out and past him. We were accepted into the house by a harried-looking maid and butler, both of which snatched off our cloaks and other warm garments, and bustled away with them somewhere into the depths of the house. Another maid led us briskly into an enormous ballroom where many couples were already twirling.

I tugged on Raoul's hand with a nod toward the dance floor. "Shall we dance?" I inquired this of him politely.

He turned a look on me, suddenly all smiles and simpers, "Of course, darling." He teased at my hair with a smile, "We'll do anything you like."

My eyes narrowed, as I was quite suspicious of this sudden turn in his behavior. I remained perplexed as he began to spin me around in tune to the music, until I noticed that his eyes were straying from me and that he was staring in a direction from which extremely loud Italian was emanating. I turned, too, to discover an extremely lumpy man dressed in red brocades trimmed with gold, gorging himself on wine. This was probably Raoul's conquest for the evening, and evidently he wanted to present himself as a gentlemanly type.

Sure enough, when the dance was over, Raoul wound a hand about my waist and half-dragged me to the corner with the fat Italian. The man was positively hideous, his face covered by a thick beard, which was full of crumbs from his dinner and droplets of wine. His face was already extremely red, and needless to say, he was surrounded by groveling women who doubtless were being paid very well to stay by his side.

Raoul inclined his head and held out his hand to the Italian, "Monsieur, may I be allowed to introduce myself? I am the Comte de Chagny."

The Italian gave Raoul scarcely a glance. Instead, his eyes were fixated on me, "My, who is this sumptuous little croissant you've brought along with you?" His eyes were roving my figure now.

Raoul looked surprised for a moment, but then he quickly recovered himself. "This is my lovely wife, the Comtesse de Chagny."

I curtseyed prettily, lowering my eyes so as not to stare at the Italian's ugly visage. Raoul and his associates always thoroughly disgusted me.

"Beautiful," the Italian murmured, before proceeding to utter some additional phrases in Italian. His entourage of women were giving me hostile looks, obviously unhappy that I was being favored by their master.

Raoul cleared his throat suddenly, "I believe that there is the little matter of the -."

"The vineyard, yes, yes!" The Italian waddled closer to us and slung an arm over Raoul's shoulder. "Come, come! We shall adjourn to a private room where we can discuss business." He untangled himself from his women, all of whom were wearing identical pouts. "Now, now, ladies, don't wander off while I'm gone." Then he turned to me, "So sorry, my dear, but would you be so kind as to fetch us some drinks?" Here he tapped me teasingly on the rump and grinned.

I would have hit him if Raoul had not mouthed at me to stop it. He had seen the whole thing, the bastard, and he had done nothing about it. In my expensive satin gown, I practically stalked away. Let them fetch their own drinks, the mongrels. Instead I swiped a glass of wine for myself off of the tray of a passing serving boy and retreated to the outskirts of the crowd. Perhaps I would just duck out of the ballroom for a time and search for some amusement of my own.

As my miserable luck would have it, upon leaving the ballroom, I was immediately cornered by the hostess of the whole affair, Madame Penous. She was a woman a decade or so older than me, but extremely matronly and overbearing, having mothered a family of five already. She swept toward me, her read hair curled about her head and her green eyes intent upon something.

"My dear Comtesse!" She exclaimed, upon reaching my still form. "So nice to see you here!"

They were all so superficial in this world of Raoul's. The opera had indeed been a world of fantasy, but at least it had not masqueraded as anything else but the mystical world that it was. Here, it was harder to pretend that you belonged.

Nevertheless, I attached a bright smile to my face and bobbed my head graciously, "Madame. A lovely party indeed."

She laughed prettily, her fan moving rapidly up and down. "Oh, it's absolutely nothing, dear child! You should have been here last Christmas, oh what a lovely time we had then!"

"I'm sure." I hoped my words didn't seem too forced.

She hooked a powdered white hand around my arm suddenly and began to lead me away, "You absolutely must come into the parlor with me. Let me introduce you to some of the ladies of one of my circles."

I nearly rolled my eyes; for almost a year Madame Penous had undertaken to properly initiate me into society, and so far, she had been dismally failing. I had been acquainted with endless 'circles' of her's, including both her sewing and poetry club, all of which had been filled with women who thought they were the foremost authorities on their respective club subjects.

Nevertheless, I allowed Madame Penous to continue to lead me forward as she whispered intimately into my ear, as if we were great friends. With one gloved hand, she pushed open one of her parlor's double doors and brought me forth into a comfortable room decorated with warm reds and oranges with a grand fire blazing in one corner.

Richly dressed and heavily powdered women were reclining about in couches, all dangling wine and unknown papers in their laps. Madame Penous stood me before the fireplace and introduced me in the customary fashion to the circle. A few of the women I had even met before, although they gave no indication of remembering me, as I had probably insulted them with my lack of interest in their hobbies before.

"This," Madame Penous made a general gesture to the circle, "Is my lovely circle for the fine arts."

Now I saw that the papers in the laps of the ladies were all old playbills, bearing the crude poster art from various operas and ballets. One of the ladies moved over in her seat and indicated that I sit beside her. She looked to be my age and offered me a kindly smile.

"Welcome, Comtesse. I'm Adelle." Her eyes were a dark brown, tinged with black, and sparkling cheerfully as if she really meant her welcome.

I gave my first genuine smile of the night to her, "I'm Christine."

"Do you enjoy the arts, Christine?" This came from Madame Renois, an aged woman dressed in heavy green silks on another couch. She was fanning herself with a playbill curled in her hand.

"Yes, very much," I told her honestly. "Unfortunately, my husband detests all forms of art."

"I understand," Adelle commented from beside me. "Francisco simply despises the ballet and abhors the slightest mention of the opera. One would think that he'd have more passion in his blood, being Spanish and all…"

"Adelle!" Madame Renois reprimanded.

Adelle blushed slightly. I privately wondered what was becoming of the men of our society. None of them seemed to take pleasure in simple beauty any more. None of them seemed to have souls, for that matter. What kind of a human being was it that could survive simply on account books like Raoul? Although I did have a rather good idea of why it was exactly that he kept me away from the opera.

"Well, then, you should join the club for an excursion to the opera in two days' time!" Madame Penous clapped her hands together, apparently delighted that she had found a subject to interest me. "You do enjoy the opera, do you not?"

I fought back a grin and replied as nonchalantly as possible, "Oh, I suppose."

Still, the good Madame Penous was encouraged. "Then you will join us, my dear? The Opera Cardinal is opening with a new production and we simply must go on the first night."

"Who is to star?" A woman with a heavy English accent spoke up beside Renois.

Madame Penous seated herself upon a plush comforter. "I believe it is the great Carlotta."

I nearly choked on my wine. These women really had absolutely no idea about real quality in the opera, if they thought Carlotta was talented. At the same time I shuddered, for as comical as she had once been, she too was connected to my memories of the Opera Populaire.

"Have you ever heard Carlotta sing?" Adelle beamed with the rapturous look of admiration for the woman.

I shrugged, "She's nothing special really. Does no one remember the travesty that was Il Muto?"

"Was that the day she inexplicably began to croak like a toad?" Madame Renois leaned forward, a look of amusement upon her face. "I thought I was the only one who remembered that."

Adelle gaped, "Surely that was no fault of her own!"

Madame Renois laced her fingers beneath her chin as if she knew a great secret and with a hushed voice, whispered, "Of course not, it was the work of the Opera Ghost."

I stiffened in my seat, all color escaping my face instantly. I must have been squeezing my glass too tightly, because it broke unexpectedly, the shards falling upon my dress in miniscule glittering pieces.

Adelle gasped and jumped up right away with a handkerchief at the ready for me. "Your beautiful dress!" She shook her head over the rapidly-spreading spots, which were diffusing through the fabric in the manner of blood stains. All of the other women began to fuss over me instantly, except for Madame Renois. She alone regarded me thoughtfully, her lips pursed in a frown.

"You do not believe in the Ghost?" she inquired this of me quietly, her words cutting through the din of the other women as they helped to clean me off.

Before I could reply, Madame Penous laughed easily and turned to me, "Pay no attention to Karine, my dear. That Ghost has been an obsession of her's for years. She used to frequent the Opera Populaire up until that horrid accident five years ago."

"Oh, let's not talk about that again, please," the Englishwoman tossed her head and set her curls to bouncing. "Why not discuss our upcoming excursion?"

The rest of the women resumed their seats, "You know, I remember that there used to be another girl who sang at the Populaire in its last days," Adelle suddenly commented. "She stood in for Carlotta several times."

"Now that you mention it, I too remember her," Karine placed a jeweled hand upon Madame Penous's arm. "What was her name again, Tiffanie?"

Madame Penous swirled her glass, musing. "You know, I just can't seem to remember."

I did not dare to look at any of them.