Christine Daaé stared numbly at her reflection in the mirror as Madame Giry placed the veil atop her auburn curls, the lace concealing her snow white countenance as it fell over her face.

     "Oh," the ballet director breathed. "You look absolutely stunning. A bride fit for a vicomte."

     Christine murmured a quick "thank you" before turning away to conceal the rosy hue bursting to life on her cheeks like a garden in bloom. When the Maid of Honor appeared in the doorway and cleared her throat, Madame Giry excused herself to give the childhood friends a moment alone. As Meg Giry closed the door behind her mother, Christine stepped down from the pedestal and lifted the veil to reveal the flush of shame spreading across her face.

     While most would look upon Christine and see just another blushing bride, Meg sensed her friend's distress and rushed to her side, clutching the prima donna's trembling hands in her own.

     "Christine, what's wrong? I haven't seen you this upset since...well, since..." Meg faltered, unwilling to say his name.

     "Meg, I cannot go through with this," Christine blurted, and when Meg wrinkled her brow in confusion, she threw her hands into the air and gestured helplessly to her wedding dress. "This. I cannot go through with this. The wedding, the pomp and circumstance, any of it. Meg, I love Raoul, but...but I..."

     She sighed and looked away, but Meg placed a hand on her cheek and gently forced her to meet her eyes.

     "But what?" she prompted, and Christine wiped the tears from her eyes in frustration.

     "As much as I love Raoul, I...I love Erik more," the soprano whispered, and her face burned with humiliation when Meg's eyes widened. "Please, I don't expect you to understand, and I know better than to ask for your approval, but I just—Raoul has always been the safe choice, but my wish was never to marry for security. It was to marry for love."

     Meg fell silent for a moment, and when she finally spoke, her words were a testament to their decade-long friendship, "You're right...I don't understand...but I don't have to. Christine, you have been through so much, I just want you to be happy."

     Tears of a different kind brimmed in Christine's eyes as she enveloped Meg in a tight embrace, and the young women only relinquished their hold on the other when a soft knock came at the door.

     "Just a moment!" Meg called before taking the veil from Christine's hand. "Go, there's a door in the back, I will stall for you."

     With a watery smile, Christine quickly kissed Meg's cheek, "Thank you, my dear friend. I will write to you when I have found somewhere to stay."

     "I expect a letter every week. And we must get together when you find your own place," Meg replied.

     "Yes, we must," she agreed, heading toward the back door before she could lose her nerve.

     Her hand on the knob, she turned to look over her shoulder, "Meg, tell Raoul..."

     The ballerina nodded, "I will."

     As Christine threw a cloak over her wedding dress and tucked her tight ringlets under the hood, the string quartet started to play the "Bridal Chorus". Those in attendance stood with a smile, but when they turned their attention to the end of the aisle, they found the Maid of Honor tugging nervously at a lock of blonde hair.

     Meg quickly walked down the aisle and Raoul de Chagny's heart dropped into his stomach, for he knew his bride would not follow, even before little Giry expressed her wish to speak with him in private.

...

     Erik Destler stared down at the ring in his hand, an act that had filled his days more often than not since Christine left. He sighed; to think of his Angel of Music was to remind himself of what might have been. Of what could not be. He ran a weary hand over his abhorrent face, the face that had poisoned the love between him and his angel.

     He sighed once more and got to his feet, careful to avoid his reflection in the mirror; the infamous, white mask lay discarded on the divan. Erik stowed the golden band in his breast pocket, his heart beating painfully against the ring as he fastened the clasp of his cloak.

     Placing a black fedora atop his head, he briefly regarded the mask before deciding against it; his opera house had been quiet since the fire. He then ascended into the theatre above; it would do him no good to wallow in his own self-pity. Erik laughed bitterly in spite of himself; wallowing in self-pity was exactly what he'd been doing for the past three months. He crept through the Opera Populaire, the grand building a mere husk of what it had once been.

     Erik winced; in an act of uncontrollable rage, he'd severely damaged his opera house. He would never forgive himself for harming what he considered to be the physical manifestation of his soul.

     Aside from my music, that is, he thought, but music – of any kind – was hard to come by these days.

     He clenched his jaw and swallowed the lump in his throat, looking out across the auditorium and remembering the panicked screams of his patrons. But most of all, he remembered the look of terror on Christine's face as he grabbed her by the waist and took her captive in his lair. He closed his eyes, trying to douse the images that flared to life in his mind, but it only made the terror in his angel's eyes more prominent.

     He left the stage behind and made his way to the roof, the frigid wind painfully peppering the cursed half of his countenance. Climbing to the top of Apollo's Lyre, the City of Lights sprawled out before him.

     I am the king of the world, he scoffed.

     Unfortunately, his world existed solely below the opera house. Five cellars below. He sighed. Paris no longer lived up to its name; the theatre – and the city it was named after – had been dimmed in his mind, its splendor now tarnished. Just as Erik moved to descend into the deep darkness of his Hell, movement caught the corner of his eye.

     "Damn fool, do you have a death wish?" he seethed as someone disappeared into the upper cellar's entrance along the Rue Scribe.

...

     Jack Dawson charged through the backstreets of Paris, rolling his sleeves to his elbows as he followed the sound of a woman's scream. With Fabrizio De Rossi on his heels, Jack spotted the woman in peril but stopped in his tracks when the red-headed firecracker punched her assailant in the nose. The crook, who had seemingly attempted to snatch her diamond necklace, fit the description of a "damsel in distress" far better than the woman he now scampered away from.

     Glancing at Fabrizio with raised eyebrows, Jack plucked the necklace off the ground, admiring the heart-shaped pendant and whistling appreciatively as he asked, "Are you alright?"

     The young woman nodded breathlessly, and Jack moved to return the necklace, but winced as a bright spotlight blinded him.

     "You! Drop the necklace and step away from the girl!" someone demanded, and though he could not see, Jack had been on the wrong side of the law enough times to recognize the voice of authority.

     While he typically tried to avoid confrontations with the police, times were tough, and he had to steal the occasional loaf of bread or piece of fruit to get by. Now, however, he found himself incriminated not by his actions, but by the stark contrast between the threadbare clothes on his back and the priceless necklace in his hands.

     In one swift motion, he released the breath he'd been holding, shoved the necklace into the woman's hands, and bolted down the street. Knowing he would eventually manage to find Fabrizio once the heat had died down, Jack didn't bother to wait for his friend. With the constables barking commands into the night and boots pounding against the cobblestone streets, Jack urged himself to run faster.

     Risking a glance over his shoulder and realizing the authorities were beginning to reevaluate wasting their resources on a lowly thief such as himself, Jack ducked into a nearby alley and waited for the constables to pass by. Taking a moment to catch his breath once the streets had quieted, he stepped out of the alley, his jaw dropping when he realized he stood behind the Paris Opéra House.

     After making sure he wasn't being followed, he moved toward the front of the famous opera house, wondering if the legends surrounding the Phantom of the Opera were true. When shouting pricked at his ears, Jack turned and cursed, the spotlight shining in his face once more.

     Hoping the infamous rumors were enough to keep the police away, Jack slipped through the metal gate that both guarded the entrance to the cellars below and encouraged passersby to continue on their way down the Rue Scribe.

...

     Rose DeWitt Bukater could not breathe, but her suffocation had nothing to do with the damn corset her mother forced her to wear. Well, that wasn't entirely true. Her corset was partially to blame for her claustrophobia, but not because it constricted her organs. No, her corset restricted her because it was her mother who had demanded she wear it.

     Rose had hoped to enjoy her time in Paris, but the City of Love was rather hard to enjoy when love was so lacking between her, her mother, and her fiancé, Caledon Hockley. Rose sighed; they would set out soon enough, as Paris was just one of several stops they had made on their way to Southampton, England, where they would join the crew of the RMS Titanic on her maiden voyage across the Atlantic.

     Rose supposed she should have been excited to return to America, but the walls grew closer and her heart became heavier with each step that brought her closer to New York, to her wedding day. Excusing herself from dinner once it was appropriate to do so, Rose slipped a shawl around her shoulders and stepped outside of their townhouse, partially concealing the exquisite diamond against her collarbone.

     The Heart of the Ocean – or Coeur de la Mer, as it was known in France – had been an engagement gift from Cal. Though the diamond chain itself was exquisite and the blue pendant it held absolutely breathtaking, the priceless piece of jewelry felt like an anchor around her neck, weighing her down and tying her to her future fiancé.

     She was pulled from the thoughts that threatened to drown her when a voice called, "C'est dangereux de se promener seule dans ces rues, Mademoiselle, surtout la nuit."

     It's dangerous to walk these streets unaccompanied, Mademoiselle, especially at night.

     Rose stopped in her tracks, not needing her rudimentary understanding of French to recognize the man's tone. She backed away as the man rushed toward her, but he quickly overpowered her, seizing her shoulders and throwing her to the ground. Screaming at the top of her lungs before her assailant could silence her, Rose kicked the man in the groin, then scrambled to her feet as he doubled over.

     The man growled and snatched the pendant from around her neck. Rose yelped as the diamonds bit against her delicate skin and clenched her jaw, letting out an indignant huff. Rather than running the instant he stole the necklace, the man was foolish enough to spend a moment admiring it, a moment that allowed Rose to punch him squarely in the nose.

     She was vaguely aware of the two figures drawing closer in her peripheral vision, but her gaze was focused on the satisfactory spurt of blood that sprayed from the thug's nose.

     As Rose watched the man scurry away, she heard a quiet voice ask, "Are you alright?"

     Turning, she found a young man standing beside her, and her eyes moved from his boyishly handsome face to the thin quality of his clothing. Finally, her gaze rested on the necklace in his hand, which he quickly offered.

     Before she could take it, a spotlight brightened the alley and a policeman yelled, "You! Drop the necklace and step away from the girl!"

     The man beside her froze, then shoved the necklace into her hand and disappeared into the night before she could say a word. As the constables gave chase, Cal shoved past the officers who stayed behind to question her and pulled her into his arms.

     "Leave her alone," he demanded, "can't you see the poor thing is shaking?"

     Glancing at the necklace, he tucked a lock of Rose's red hair behind her ear, "My God, darling, are you all right?"

     "I-I'm fine, Cal," she managed, gently freeing herself from his grasp.

     "Don't worry, the gendarme will find the rat who assaulted you," he promised, and Rose bit her lip to prevent herself from smiling. "And I assure you, I will take your necklace to the finest jeweler in Paris. It will be fixed. Luckily, it appears only the clasp will need mending."

     Rose nodded, though she hardly heard what her fiancé was saying. Instead, she kept picturing the innocent young man who was now being chased across Paris, and the genuine concern that furrowed his brow when he checked to make sure she was unharmed. But most of all, she remembered the charming smile that tugged at his lips and threatened to break through after the thug fled from the alley with his tail tucked between his legs.