The late afternoon sun streamed through the grand, arched windows of the opera house, casting long shadows that danced across the rows of red velvet seats. The air was filled with the haunting melodies of Carlotta's voice, echoing off the ornate ceilings, a stark contrast to the mundane clatter of tools and wood in the auditorium where Christine worked tirelessly alongside Buquet. The task at hand seemed menial to many but was crucial in preserving the sanctity and allure of this historic performance hall.
The stage was alight with Carlotta's presence, her voice both enchanting and commanding, an unchallenged diva, used to admiration and reverence. Sir Harold and Rahul sat in the front row, their attentions fixated on the performance, at least until the unexpected interruption. As the young performer tumbled over a mislaid stage prop, the harmonious scene shattered. The gasps of the few present mirrored the dissonant clash of body and floor. Carlotta's reaction was swift and unforgiving—a pointed kick, barely hidden by the billow of her dress, accentuating her disdain for anything less than perfection.
Christine's gaze was reluctantly pulled from the task at hand. Her eyes caught the scene—a blend of grace with cruelty. Buquet, with years of stoic composure etched into the lines of his face, diverted Christine's attention back to the task. "Just focus on fixing the chairs," he murmured, with a tone that mingled authority and distraction. "Yes, sir," Christine replied, her voice barely above a whisper amidst the rumbling chaos on stage.
Carlotta, never one to let a moment pass without comment, directed her ire towards the stage management. "Your stage props are poorly managed," she declared, each word dripping with theatrical zeal designed for maximum impact.
Rahul, shifting uneasily in his seat, leaned forward in concern. "Tommy, are you okay?" His voice tried to bridge the gap between the ornate world of performance and the harshness of an unplanned fall.
Tommy, cheeks flushed with embarrassment and anger, pulled himself upright, nodding curtly, "Yes," while directing a defiant glare at Carlotta, which she coolly ignored.
The diva, never content to let criticism be, flounced over to the edge of the stage, her eyes scanning the music sheet in her hand with a critic's precision. "You hire second-rate performers that don't match your high-ranked composer," she asserted, the sting of her words aimed squarely at Rahul. Without waiting for a retort, she pressed, "Can I meet this composer?"
Rahul remained evasive. "No, he is a freelancer," he replied, his words cloaked in a diplomatic secrecy that failed to hide his unease.
Carlotta, unswayed and ever ambitious, sought her own solution. Her gaze fell upon Christine. "Then, give me a dancer I can work with. What about her?" she proposed with a theatrical flourish towards the young woman bent over a chair.
Rahul's head whipped around in surprise, "Christine is not a dancer or performer," he stated, his voice a blend of respect and defense for the girl's hidden talents.
Ignoring him, Carlotta moved with purpose, her mind already shaping Christine's silhouette into the story she envisioned. "Her father was very graceful," Carlotta mused aloud, memories flickering in her eyes, "We attended Juilliard together. It would’ve been a waste if he didn’t train her a little." And with an imperious gesture, she commanded, "Girl, come here now!"
Christine's hands were stained with the patina of faded lacquer as she worked alongside Buquet, her thoughts far from the old chairs they endeavored to restore. The soft creaks and groans of the furniture were almost musical, a symphony that played unnoticed over the sharp staccato of Carlotta's heeled shoes striking the stage.
Carlotta, the embodiment of tempestuous elegance, stood like a furious storm on the stage. Her porcelain skin glowed unnaturally under the stage lights, casting an ethereal sheen over her finely sculpted features. Her eyes, twin darts of disdain, were fixed squarely upon Christine as she unleashed her insistence, her voice choking the air with its sharpness. "Girl, don't ignore me," she lashed out, her words slicing through the air, demanding attention.
In the plush velvet seats, Sir Harold and Rahul watched with the detached curiosity of seasoned theatergoers. Sir Harold's murmur, "It couldn't hurt," floated gently across the aisle, tinged with a casual indifference, while Rahul, with a tempered urgency, whispered, "Please, just this one time." Their words were leaves caught in the tempest of the unfolding drama, soon to be forgotten.
Christine, surrounded by the pressure of expectation, relinquished her hold on the past in the form of a tossed screwdriver, the clang resonating through the auditorium like a final note. She moved toward the stage, her steps deliberate yet weighed with hesitation. As her fingers brushed the cool metal of the rail, memories engulfed her, pulling her backward in time—a different stage, a different time, a different her.
In her mind’s eye, the opulence of the Paris opera house reassembled before her, its vastness punctuated only by the singular figure of Erik. He emerged from the darkness behind her, a phantom of dreams and reproach. His voice, both a caress and a command, echoed around her, draping her in a familiar admonishment. "Stop wasting your time with this nonsense. You are a singer."
Erik's hands were insistent, drawing her into him with a force that was both reassuring and powerful, the way a riptide pulls a solitary swimmer into its depth. His grip was firm, unyielding, a silent promise that despite his roughness, there was safety in his presence. "Christine, you must be careful," he whispered, concern threading his tone as he shielded her with his embrace, preventing a fall that seemed inevitable.
The past dissolved abruptly as Carlotta's fingers dug into Christine’s arm, snatching her back to the present with a brusque tug. "Show me," Carlotta demanded, her voice now a crescendo of frustration.
The command broke something within Christine, the tether snapping as she wrenched herself free. "I can't do this, I am sorry," she replied, her voice barely a whisper, burdened with the weight of a thousand unshed tears. She turned sharply, her departure as swift as a wraith retreating into shadow, the dull thud of her fleeing footsteps echoing her escape.
Carlotta, unrelenting, hurled her vitriol after Christine, her words sharp and cruel, laced with venomous disdain. "You are a waste of your father’s legacy. I am sure he would be very disappointed in you, along with your whore mother, girl!" The auditorium, now ringing with Carlotta's accusatory cry, stood silent for a moment, absorbing the darkness of her words.
***
In the dimly lit auditorium of the grand opera house, the walls seemed to vibrate with the resonant laughter of Carlotta, her voice sharp and commanding as it pierced through the shadows like a knife. On stage, she basked in her own grandeur, her presence filling the vast space with an imposing aura. Outside the ornate double doors, the hurried, anxious footfalls of Christine could be heard, echoing like a forewarning of impending conflict. Her distress was palpable, a stark contrast to Carlotta's arrogance.
High above the stage, concealed within the embrace of shadowy rafters, Erik's gaze was a smoldering fire directed at Carlotta, his thoughts a tumultuous storm. He muttered to himself, words laced with venom, "How dare she do that to Christine." The intensity of his anger was almost tangible, a silent vow that reverberated within the hollow theater.
In a motion swift and deliberate, Erik shifted his weight, inadvertently sending a bucket teetering over the edge. It plummeted to the stage with a startling crash, scattering ropes in a chaotic sprawl that narrowly missed Carlotta. Her eyes darted upwards, pupils contracting as they sought the source of the disturbance amidst the flickering shadows and floating dust particles. An unearthly stillness followed, broken only by her indignant voice. "Did you see what your crew did to me?" she demanded, her foot nudging the upturned bucket with disdain.
From the plush velvet seats just below her, Rahul and Harold exchanged puzzled glances. Their expressions mirrored the dim ambient light of the auditorium, a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. Rahul responded, his voice cloaked in disbelief, "It must be something else; we haven’t hired stagehands yet." His eyes flickered upwards, catching a glimpse of movement, a moment that hung in the balance of reality and imagination. For a fleeting heartbeat, he thought he saw Erik’s elusive figure.
With the grace and agility of a shadow, Erik retreated into the labyrinth above, his heart a drumbeat of urgency. Slipping silently to the backstage, hidden from prying eyes, he descended using a rope as a lifeline, swaying with practiced ease. The back passages of the opera house were his sanctuary, a secret network only he could navigate. Unseen and unnoticed, he made his way to the front of the house, where the evening's shadows pooled thick and heavy, protecting his clandestine advances.
In shadows depths of the opera house, where the air itself seemed to weave between the shadows, Erik treaded softly, his knowledge of hidden passages guiding him like an unsung melody. The whispers of his cloak danced behind him as he moved, a silent shadow slipping from the obscured corridors into the muted glow that marked the front of the opera—an abandoned corridor, solitary save for the echoes of distant footfalls and the soft murmur of forgotten dreams.
As he neared the stockroom, the fragile sobs of a hurt reached his ears, each one a dagger twisting in the hollow chambers of his own. He paused, his breath a ghost against the coolness of the door, and laid his hand upon it with a reverence usually reserved for the most sacred of relics. The trembling cries were unmistakably Christine’s, each note of sorrow striking a chord that thrummed painfully within his chest. Without conscious thought, her name escaped his lips in a whisper, “Christine.”
His forehead came to rest gently against the worn wood, its surface cool and steady, a contrast to the tempest that raged within him. How he longed to breach this final barrier, to be at her side and dispel the shadows that dared to lay siege to her gentle spirit. He traced his fingertips along the door’s surface, feeling every contour of the grain as his hand slipped toward the handle, pausing there—a moment suspended in time. “What are you doing?” he silently chastised himself, caught between desire and restraint.
From beyond the door came her voice, a lilting tremor of self-reproach, words wrapped tightly in the agony of unfair condemnation. “Why must I make a fool of myself everywhere I go?” she lamented, the confession a solitary rose of despair cast carelessly into the vast ocean of the world.
The accusation, false and unjust, tore at Erik with the ferocity of a thousand talons. Each syllable etched fresh wounds upon his spirit, leaving it as ragged as the ragged bursts of her tears. How could she, adrift in a sea of self-doubt, not see the brilliance that she brought into a world otherwise draped in dullness? Inside him, emotions clashed—an aching tenderness and a protective rage, drawn forth by Christine’s pain, each struggling to be foremost.
Erik is still near the heavy wooden door of the stockroom, his face a tapestry woven from threads of concern and cloaked determination. The dim light cast long, haunting shadows, accentuating the labyrinth of emotions stitched upon his visage.
The sound of footsteps, hesitant yet firm, broke the silence as Rahul emerged from the grand double doors leading to the auditorium. His eyes, glinting with a mixture of mischief and intrigue, swept the surroundings before fixing upon Erik. A flirtatious smile curled at Rahul's lips, a playful rebellion against the solemnity of the moment. “Nice to see you out of the basement,” Rahul quipped, his tone light and teasing, yet laced with an undertone of affection.
Erik, his patience a fragile dam on the verge of breaking, sighed deeply. “Stop joking,” he implored, desperation threading his voice. He gestured toward the stockroom door, where Christine's cries fractured the silence like shards of glass. “I need you to go in there to check on Christine.”
Rahul hesitated, the teasing sparkle in his eyes dimming, replaced by a shadow of reluctance. “No, I can’t,” he replied, his voice wavering slightly. “This will cause issues with me and Meg. I can barely stop looking at her as it is now. She seems to be in a vulnerable state... who knows what would happen.”
A moment of silence enveloped them, thick and palpable, as Erik reached out, his fingers grazing Rahul's hand with the lightness of a whisper. The touch was a silent plea, a testament to Erik’s unspoken burdens. “I never ask you for anything,” Erik murmured, his voice a gentle caress amid the tension. “Please, do this for me. I will owe you big time.”
Rahul's resolve softened, his defenses dismantling under the tender weight of Erik's words. His gaze lingered on Erik’s face, a silent conversation passing between them, rich with history and unspoken promises. Leaning forward, Rahul pressed a gentle kiss to Erik’s lips, a seal on the unvoiced pact between them. “Fine, you win,” Rahul acquiesced, his voice barely above a whisper. “Make sure the door stays open.” With a final, lingering glance, Erik watched Rahul turned toward the stockroom.
***
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
The faint creak of the door echoed softly in the dimly lit stockroom as Rahul eased it open, his movements hesitant and careful, as though he didn’t want the sound to intrude on the thick, suffocating quiet that clung to the space. The air was heavy with the mingling scents of cardboard, musty paper, and cleaning solution. But beneath these phantom smells was something more visceral—the delicate, brittle sound of a woman breaking apart.
Rahul stepped inside, letting the door stay ajar as if maintaining his exit was a necessary condition for what he might face within. The sound guided him, sharp and jagged, until Christine came into view. She was folded into herself, perched on an overturned box, her slender shoulders trembling under the weight of an unseen burden. Her face was buried in her hands, muffling her choked sobs. Strands of her honey-colored hair had slipped free from her once-neat bun, tangling like raw emotions barely contained. It was almost as if she were trying to disappear, to compress herself into something small enough to match how broken she felt.
“I should have never come here,” Christine whispered, her voice raw and broken, words tumbling like shattered glass against the quiet. “I knew I’d screw something up. I always do.”
Rahul’s chest ached at the sight of her, the sound of her, at how easily she absorbed guilt like a sponge, even when it wasn't hers to carry. He stepped closer, his hands brushing the edge of a nearby shelf for balance as if the simple proximity of her pain was enough to unsettle him.
His voice was soft but firm when it came, each word carrying a heat meant to melt the ice of her anguish. “This is not your fault. Charlotte is just jealous of you.”
Christine’s response came not through her face but through a sharp exhale, a tremble of her fingers as they curled tighter against her cheeks. She didn’t look up, her voice a muffled question echoing through the thin barrier of her palms. “I don’t understand why,” she murmured with the fragility of someone aching for answers. “She’s a lovely singer. A beautiful singer.”
Rahul sighed, his brows furrowed in frustration, not with her but with a world in which she could so easily doubt herself. His hands itched to reach for her—to pull her hands away, to cradle her face—but he froze, his fingers staying by his sides, restrained by some unspoken tension between need and uncertainty.
“I can’t talk to you this way,” he said, his voice dropping a notch, thick with quiet insistence. There was a vulnerability beneath the words, a plea for connection—for her to let him see her, truly see her. His gaze remained locked on her, waiting for her to respond, to lower those walls she had built even in her moment of sorrow.
But Christine didn’t move, still hiding, still shielding herself from him and the world. And in the stillness, the weight of unspoken truths hung heavy between them, pressing against the thin air of the stock room like the threat of an oncoming storm.
Rahul stood still for a moment, his chest rising and falling with a quiet intensity, before taking a step closer to Christine. Her shoulders quaked as she buried her face in trembling hands, trying in vain to mask the tears that dampened her flushed cheeks.
“Christine,” he murmured, his voice low and steady like the hush before a distant storm.
With a measured gentleness, he reached out, his hands warm against the cool fragility of hers. He removed them from her face, his touch lingering just long enough to coax her to look at him. When her tear-soaked gaze finally met his, she tried to wipe the evidence away quickly, as if ashamed. Her voice was soft but fractured, like glass threatening to crack under its own weight.
"I might go back to New York," she whispered, each word a fresh wound, slicing through the fragile air between them
Rahul’s dark eyes held hers captive, their intensity unrelenting. There was no hesitation in his response, only a quiet ferocity. "Then, I might have to chase after you," he said, his tone as steady as stone but carrying a vulnerability he rarely allowed to surface.
Christine’s lips parted, the breath hitching in her throat. She shook her head, her voice barely audible as she warned him. "You shouldn't say that."
But Rahul didn’t step back. Instead, he stepped closer, the ache in his chest propelling his hands to rest tentatively at her waist. He seemed to brace himself for the connection, as if afraid he might unravel right there in front of her. "Or," he began, his voice dipping into something softer, rawer, "perhaps I should say... you are the most wonderful woman I have ever met." He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the weight of his next words. "You make me want to walk away from everyone and everything, just to prevent you from crying again."
The words hung between them like smoke, thick and heavy, refusing to dissipate. Christine lowered her gaze, her chest heaving with the conflicting emotions that clawed at her heart. “I think,” she began, her voice trembling. “I think we shouldn’t be so close.”
But even as she said it, she didn’t move. She stayed, rooted by the gravity of his presence, unable to pull away. Rahul’s breath was warm against her neck as he leaned in close. His voice dropped to a whisper, intimate and dangerous in its proximity.
"I’m starting to think," he exhaled slowly, "you enjoy me being this close."
His lips brushed against the curve of her neck, soft as a stolen promise, the flicker of his tongue igniting a spark that neither of them could deny. He kissed her there, tracing a slow line of molten heat down her skin. His hands, now emboldened, slipped past the thin barrier of her blazer, finding the edges of her modest usher’s uniform. A shaky, involuntary moan escaped her lips as her fingers clutched at his arms, betraying every word she had uttered moments before.
“Rahul…” she gasped, his name a plea, a warning, and a confession all wrapped in one.
He paused, his lips hovering just above her skin. "Yes, Christine?" he murmured, his breath skimming her like a lover’s caress.
Christine’s breaths shallowed as she tipped her face up to his, her lips parted, a trembling question hanging in the space between them.
But then she froze.
From the corner of her eye, something flickered—an inky silhouette that seemed to shift against the wall as though alive. Her body stiffened, and she pulled away abruptly, her voice coming in a sharp whisper. “The shadow.”
Before Rahul could process her cryptic words, she was gone. Her figure darted out of sight, swallowed by the corridors of the dim stockroom. Rahul stood there, perplexed, staring at the void she left in her wake. His brow furrowed, an ache building in his chest, but just as he turned toward the door, his senses heightened—the crackling stillness replaced by the presence of another.
In the reflected glass of the office window, he caught sight of them—Meg and Charlotte. Tension hung between their figures like a frayed wire, taut and ready to snap. Meg’s body was coiled, her glare a dagger aimed squarely at Charlotte. Rahul's jaw clenched as primal instinct flared within him. Without thought, he strode forward and grabbed Meg by the wrist, his grip firm but not unkind. She let out a small gasp, more in surprise than objection, as he led her swiftly toward his office, the world narrowing down to just the two of them.
The door clicked closed behind them, shutting out the brittle light of the outer room. Shadows pooled around the edges of the office space, the lamplight casting a golden slash across Meg’s features. Her eyes—dark, unyielding—seemed to smolder as she yanked her hand away. “What is wrong with you?” she spat, her voice low but laced with electric anger.
Rahul didn’t answer. Words seemed to fail him, evaporating into the charged air between them. Instead, he moved toward her, his hands sliding into her hair as he tilted her face upward. Their lips met as if speaking a language neither of them had the words for. Her defiance melted under the heat of his kiss, her fingers clutching at his shirt as though to anchor herself in the storm he’d unleashed.
Rahul’s intensity grew as he guided her back toward his desk, lifting her onto its hard surface. Papers scattered to the floor in forgotten chaos, but neither noticed. The act was urgent, desperate—a pouring out of everything they couldn’t say. Meg’s fingers curled into the edges of the desk, her nails digging into the wood, as though bracing herself against the strength of his desperation. Her breaths came in short gasps, her body arching instinctively to meet his.
But just as the fevered crescendo took hold, it broke
Rahul pulled away abruptly, his hands retreating as if burned. His chest heaved with the effort to regain control, his face shadowed by something darker than lust—regret, perhaps. Without another word, he turned, his footsteps heavy against the floor as he left the office. The door shut behind him with a hollow thud.
And Meg was left alone—her hands still gripping the desktop, her chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. A bead of sweat slid down the nape of her neck, a physical echo of the inferno that had just consumed them. Her lips parted, but her words faltered, disintegrating into silence. What had just happened wasn’t new—but it was unraveling her, thread by fragile thread.
***
The room still hummed with the tangling heat of their intimacy, the faintest echo of passion hanging in the air like smoke refusing to dissipate. In the center of it all, Meg sat perched on the edge of Rahul’s mahogany desk, her back still arched as if she couldn’t quite convince herself to return to the ordinary verticality of the world. The subtle creak of wood under her shifting weight was drowned out by the sound of the door clicking shut. Her lips trembled, almost hesitant, before releasing the whisper of his name: “Rahul.” It came out feather-light, floating like a secret meant only for the walls to hear.
With a practiced carelessness that betrayed her inner turmoil, Meg smoothed her skirt, tugging the hem down over legs that still felt bare no matter how much fabric she covered them with. Rising to her feet, she caught her reflection in the gilded mirror Rahul had hung on his wall—her flushed cheeks, the slight disarray of her hair, and the raw gleam in her brown eyes. As she adjusted the strands framing her face, her gaze drifted to a nearby framed photograph resting on the shelf. It was her and Rahul, arms draped around each other and smiles so seamless they could’ve tricked a stranger into believing in fairy tales. How different he looked in that frozen moment, unguarded and tender—so unlike the man who wielded control like a dagger.
Meg drew a shallow breath and walked out of his office, her heels clicking against the polished floors with a cadence that betrayed her deliberate poise. Stepping into the grand halls of the Chicago Opera House, the air seemed colder, somehow crisper, as though the building had swallowed her in its indifferent grandeur. Spotting movement, her eyes landed on Christine, hunched over by the concession stand. The younger woman’s hands scrubbed fervently at the counter as though they were soaked in something she desperately needed to erase. Her complexion, usually pale with a hint of blush, was blotchy from crying, her swollen eyes a silent anthem to whatever storm had wrecked her moments before. There was, however, no one offering her comfort—just her quiet, desperate solitude.
Meg held her gaze for a moment, indecision flickering through her as she started to take a step forward—then stopped. The sound of a deep, taut voice lured her attention elsewhere, pulling her like an invisible string drawn toward them, just past the double doors leading into the vast auditorium, stood Rahul. Standing across from him and visibly seething was Carlotta, her lips painted in a murderous red that matched the fiery spirit in her narrowed eyes.
Meg didn’t approach, instead allowing her heels to kiss the floor softly enough to avoid detection. She hovered at a distance, her body partially hidden behind an ornate column, tilting her head just enough to catch the edges of their words.
“You signed the contract to be lead singer, Carlotta,” Rahul said, his voice a smooth venom. “Unless I release you from it—which I won’t—you will perform.”
Carlotta threw her head back with a mocking laugh, as brittle as breaking glass. “Then get me some real talent,” she snapped.
"What about Meg?" Rahul's voice was low, measured, though his hands fidgeted in his pockets, betraying his attempt to mask unease.
Carlotta laughed that sharp, practiced laugh of hers, a sound honed to strike where it would sting. The glimmer of her pearls caught the light as she tilted her head. “That girl’s only talent, it seems, lies off the stage.” The edge in her tone was a knife, slicing through the reverence Meg’s name usually commanded. With a delicate, scornful gesture, Carlotta reached out, her manicured finger pointing toward the smear of lipstick faintly visible on Rahul’s cheek.
He rubbed at his face vigorously, a faint blush creeping onto his finely sculpted features. Panic, embarrassment, or guilt—it wasn’t clear which—swept over him like a dark storm.
But Meg had seen enough.
Emerging from the shadows of the hallway like a wisp of smoke, she glided toward them as if summoned by the very air. Her presence went unnoticed—at first—until she suddenly stepped between them, her delicate frame juxtaposing with the fiery defiance in her hazel eyes. Her voice cut through, trembling only slightly, like a blade cutting through silk.
“How dare you speak about me like that?” Her voice was bitter with indignation, her cheeks flushed with rage. "You’re jealous, Carlotta. I see it. Jealous because the only thing waiting for you at home at night is a dusty bottle of overpriced wine." Her lips twisted into a sharp smile, one that didn’t quite reach her sorrow-tinged eyes.
Carlotta arched a perfectly penciled brow, stepping closer to Meg now, their faces merely inches apart. “I was wrong about this one,” Carlotta whispered in her velvety tone, her gaze flickering over Meg as though she were a newly polished trinket. “She... has potential.” The word oozed sarcasm, dripping with condescension.
But Meg wasn’t done. The words burned in her chest, unspoken accusations, buried wounds, old heartache. Her eyes turned sharply toward Rahul, fury and betrayal blending in her gaze like oil and fire. She set her jaw, her voice trembling now with more than just rage.
“Were you going to defend me?” she asked, the words leaving her lips like shards of glass. “Or are you so spineless—so desperate to pander to her insults—just so you can turn a profit with this... charade?” Her voice cracked slightly, but it didn’t falter. “Your father was right about you, wasn’t he? Calculated. Selfish.”
Rahul’s gaze flicked to her like a striking light across a darkened stage. Catching her intrusion, his voice dropped into an accusing growl. "When do you find so much time to speak with my father?" he asked, his words clipped, each syllable like a shard of glass.
Meg took a deliberate step back, tilting her head just enough that the sunlight filtering in from the grand foyer caught the soft waves of her blonde hair. Her eyes burned, defying every ounce of his authority even as she kept her expression measured. "This is not about me," she said, her voice a lilt of restrained steel. "This is about you, Rahul. About you not defending me against this ghastly woman."
The sharp cadence of Ms. Giry’s heels came first, rhythmically tapping against the marble, echoing with a precision that spoke of her mastery of authority. The ever-pragmatic ballet mistress emerged from the shadowed hallway that led to her office, her brow tightly knit beneath her neatly pinned brown curls. With her steel-gray eyes and demure posture, she carried an almost regal command, which pierced through the brewing storm before any words were spoken.
“How many times must I say it?” she scolded, her French accent precise, her voice cutting but never loud. “Arguments. Not. In. Public.” She stood firmly between the two of them, her presence alone enough to silence the momentary clash of wills. Barely sparing a glance at Carlotta, who had taken a few steps back to enjoy the squabble from a longer distance, Ms. Giry nodded toward Rahul. “Attend to Carlotta, and make sure she is prepared for the performance, or I will be the one doing the defending.”
Her focus then shifted to Meg, who stood silently but simmering beneath the surface. “And you—how about you take this opportunity to enjoy a quiet lunch? Christine could use some company.” As swiftly as the reprimand came, Ms. Giry reached into her jacket and retrieved a credit card, depositing it neatly into Meg’s hand without delay. “Go.”
With little more than a sigh of annoyance, Meg pivoted smartly, slipping the credit card into her small handbag and heading toward the concession stand. Christine, who had been stationed behind the counter wiping down glasses, immediately noticed her friend’s presence and tossed aside her towel wordlessly. The pair didn’t speak as they exited the front doors and stepped out into the chilled Chicago air, the city’s life bustling around them. The opera house stood like a stoic sentinel behind them as they crossed the cobbled street to a cozy restaurant nestled beside a row of antique shops.
