Updated A/N: To those who are visiting this story for the first time, welcome, and may I present "Affairs of the Heart", previously known as "Masque of the Red Rose". The title, as you might or might not have seen, was changed, as the story seemed to mesh and mold itself into something completely different than I had previously sought. Yet, here it is, and I'm hoping you enjoy! Now, as for the summary…

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After the death of Christine's father, despair sets in, and the orphaned girl is lost. It is only after Christine becomes engaged to her childhood sweetheart, Raoul de Chagny, she realizes life can be lived. But, when Christine starts to realize that something is missing, fate cannot be stopped. When she meets a masked stranger unexpectedly, Christine knows that she cannot live without music, and seeks his guidance. But when Christine must choose, which will she decide: a life of harmony…or of music?

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If anyone has read any of my stories thus far, I welcome you back most graciously. If it is your first time, then I humbly request that you review to my updates, because they are my soul reason for writing. On one more note, please know that the first few chapters will not be very eventful, but please bear with me! Please continue to check back for updates, I promise I will have the two chapters up only when I receive at least two reviews, for I already have it written. Thanks, now read on!

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Prologue

"Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream."

- Edgar Allen Poe, "A Dream Within A Dream"

Night fell thickly outside her bedroom windowpane. Creamy, glossy fog glistened in the twilight upon the glass that reflected every tangible ounce of pure darkness. It was as if the absence of light pasted an aura upon the room unusually devoid of the bright, glorious colors of sunshine. Without it, there was something different. Something eerie. Something she did not recognize and therefore sent a tingling sensation down her spine. Perhaps the warm rush of the summer wind rustled beneath the crack of the window. Perhaps not.

Outside, trees grew copiously and menacingly. The leaves, even in the midnight hour, were gleaming green-black in a beautiful sort of way. The full moon shone off of them, mirroring the starless night sky as they whistled and twitched with a soft moaning sound. Even from her mirror into the world outside her chamber, she could still see the faint outline of the city of Paris, never sleeping. Twinkling lights blinked at her from afar, their weak glow unsupported by the deep void that was the ebony sky.

Night was always the best time to reflect. From a young age, the night would never fail to astonish her, seize her imagination. After all, the best stories were always told at nighttime. Ones of valiant heroes, gruesome creatures, and beautiful beings born from the sea. In her mind, she could always picture the stories. There was something about her that made her see things not for what they were, but for what they had been, or what they could be. Nothing was literal. Not exactly, at least. She lived in dreams, not in reality. She lived in stories, in fantasy.

But that had been when she was a child. She was no longer a child, and could not pretend to believe in trolls and giants, in magic and other-worlds. No, there was only the now. Where she was, her life, and who she was to become were the only things she had to care about anymore.

Still, at one point it had been nice to believe in such things: when believing was not frowned upon, or laughed unpleasantly at; when others believed with her, even if to just please her, and nothing more. With her innocent soul, everything was plausible, and everything was good and kind. Life had been simple, if not glamorous, as a child. That was all one could hope for. To feel love and to dream.

But she no longer had dreams. Not since her father died.

Losing her father was something she had considered a mistake. She always called it her mistake, as if she had some say in the matter. She had blamed herself in a small, selfish way, saying she had let him go. That she had let him die. But, to contradict herself, she knew that he was dying for a long time. She knew that, at some terrible, ill-fated time, she would have to except her father's death. She just didn't expect it so suddenly.

She looked back fondly at the days with her father. Him playing the violin or playing the fiddle. Him telling stories to her, holding her close, caressing her hair. Him playing with her by the sea, or singing together in the softest of voices. Him being her father.

But he was gone now.

By something that could have only been good fortune, that was no longer her demise. Even before her father died, when she was a little girl, Christine could always remember sharing her childhood with another.

Her one playmate and childhood friend had shared a summer with her. Just one. It wasn't enough for a lifelong friendship, but it was enough to sooth the soul of a violinist's lonely, starry-eyed daughter. During their short period of companionship, Raoul had been the only one to join in the joys that was Christine's father's existence. To hear his deep, gentle voice as he told stories of Scandinavian descent and the sound he made when Christine and Raoul would surprise him from behind. He always laughed, wrinkles collecting delicately at his eyes, giving him the look of unyielding patience and kindness. Raoul could remember him during those days. That is, until Raoul left, and did not come back for years at a time. And when he did come back, he would be gone again for a longer period. And so on.

When her father died, Christine had left the conservatoire in where she studied voice. She had promised herself never to sing for anyone, ever again. With the death of her father came the unrealized grief that struck her so forcefully, she was never the same. Laughter diminished from her eyes. Her feet didn't move as quickly, or as lightly. That was, until Raoul came back. Upon hearing the passing of her father, Raoul quickly consoled the (to his bewilderment and confusion) young woman to whom he had always shown great devotion. Only a short period afterwards, Raoul had come to a decision, one that would change both their lives entirely.

Christine looked down at the stone-welded ring upon her left hand. It was perfect, a clean-cut, impeccable diamond set on a thick band of pure gold. She slid the ring off her finger and, moving closer to the window, read the words engraved on the inside. Little Lotte.

Soon after the proposal was made, disapproval followed quickly. Raoul's brother, Philippe Count de Chagny, had pursed his tight, frowning lips, telling his brother that his disobedience with unaccountable, and that he knew perfectly well that he could not marry a Swedish orphan. Still, Raoul persisted, and could not care less the fate that held the two lovers in its mist. It took many months of persuasion, of lingering stubbornness, and of true devotion before the relationship was consented. Although disapproving, Philippe could not stand in the way.

So it was to be written: Christine Daae and Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny, were to be bound in holy matrimony. But there was a slight waver in their love affair. Raoul had to promise his brother that he and Christine would remain engaged for a period of five months, where, as his brother acquiesced, Christine would live with them during that time before their marriage. It was only on that condition that Raoul could save Christine from a mirthless existence.

She was happier than she had been for a long time. Her father's death withstanding, Christine had the feeling that she was going to be alright. That life after Papa Daae could not only be worth living, but worth something.

The blankness of night consumed her sight, until it was no more. All that was left were the vague sounds of the night, drifting through the window as the summer night faded along with the evening lights of the metropolitan that beckoned her soul…