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Chapter Text

London, 1873.
The former Phantom of the Opera has built a new life for himself here. Erik wanted to turn away from the music that had broken his heart. He had only one way to get over it, he turned to another of his talents.
As an architect, he was highly respected, even though hardly anyone knew him personally. His building plans were flawless, his designs thoughtful and innovative. He knew how to capture light and shadow in his buildings in such a way that they were almost magical. His clients were nobles, wealthy businessmen and sometimes even royalty - people who demanded splendor, elegance, structures that would stand the test of time. And Erik gave them just that.
His current project was one of the most ambitious: a magnificent townhouse for an influential lord, directly opposite the Royal Opera House. The irony of this location did not escape him. Every day when he entered the construction site, his gaze fell on the mighty opera building, and each time he felt that slight pang in his chest.
The townhouse was to be an architectural masterpiece – high ceilings, elaborately curved staircases, windows designed to perfectly capture the daylight. But Erik had unconsciously given himself away: the great hall on the ground floor had acoustics that were perfect for music. He knew it, had noticed it when he went through the plans. His construction manager had even mentioned it:
"If you ask me, sir, this hall could serve as a concert hall. Voices resonate beautifully here."

Erik had not let on how this comment triggered in him.

"The master of the house does not play an instrument," he had replied curtly, changing the subject.

But it was true – no matter how much he turned away from music, it followed him in his work. The way he constructed arches, the way he arranged walls, the way he designed rooms – everything was permeated by his deep understanding of sound and harmony.

He sighed and stepped to the edge of the construction site from where he could view the opera. The lights were already on, a sign that the evening performance was about to begin. He could almost feel the crowds thronging the magnificent halls, the murmur of expectant voices, the rustle of dresses, the quiet hum of voices before the curtain rose.
He turned around quickly. No. He must not sink into memories.
Just as he was about to head home, a side door of the opera opened and a young woman stepped out. She wore simple clothes, a simple dress with an apron over it, and balanced a stack of freshly cleaned costumes in her arms. A wardrobe attendant, no doubt.
She was in a hurry, or so it seemed, but as she walked she hummed a tune softly.
Erik froze.
The notes were soft, unforced, a song he didn't know - and yet it captivated him. Her voice was untrained but pure, like a hidden jewel that had yet to be polished.
Something stirred inside him, an impulse that he immediately fought down.
He turned around, his coat blowing gently in the wind as he disappeared into the darkness.
He had nothing to do with music anymore. And he wouldn't allow himself to be any other way.

Chapter Text

Catherine had been a wardrobe assistant at the Royal Opera House for 5 years. She was 26 years old, had medium-length brown hair and light blue eyes. She had a slim figure but not particularly tall and knew that she would never be in the spotlight. Her work was hidden, behind heavy curtains and in narrow rooms full of costumes, pins and ribbons. The opera house was a place of dreams - but not for her.
Her shift began long before the performance. While the first singers and dancers were putting on their make-up in their dressing rooms, Catherine prepared the costumes. She checked the seams, smoothed fabrics, arranged wigs and accessories. If a dress was damaged, she had to mend it in no time so that it would fit perfectly again for the next scene. It was an endless sequence of work: sorting, sewing, adjusting, mending. A dress was not just a dress - it was part of the production, and Catherine could not afford to make a mistake.
But the hardest part was not the work itself, but dealing with people. Especially with Madame Véronique Duval.
The great opera diva, considered the prima donna of the Royal Opera, was a beauty on stage - but a tyrant behind the scenes. Her voice was undeniable, but her ego was even bigger. And Catherine was often the target of her whims.
"Catherine! Where is my dress for the second act?" Véronique's voice cut through the air like a whip.
Catherine flinched, put the pins aside and hurried to the diva's dressing room. The woman was already standing there with her arms crossed, a grim expression on her immaculately made-up face.
"Here, madam," Catherine said quietly, handing her the magnificent dark red dress with the gold embroidery.
Véronique took it with pointed fingers and looked at it critically. "Has anyone ironed this? It looks as if it had just been taken out of an old suitcase!”

Catherine wanted to protest – she had carefully ironed it only a few hours ago – but she knew that contradiction would only bring more trouble. “I will mend it immediately, Madame.”

“I hope so. And hurry! I will not go on stage in crumpled fabric!”

With a suppressed sigh, Catherine took the dress back and hurried to the tailor's shop to run the steamer over the fabric again. She had become accustomed to this treatment. The opera was full of people with big dreams and even bigger egos – and she, the simple wardrobe assistant, was little more than an invisible servant to them.

But there were moments when she wished someone could see her.

Music was her secret love. When she had a few minutes between preparations, she listened to the rehearsals. Sometimes she would hum an aria to herself while she checked seams or attached silk ribbons. But no one was allowed to hear that. A wardrobe assistant was not supposed to sing.
Today she had almost given herself away.
As she stepped out into the night after the performance, her arms full of costumes, she had hummed unconsciously. It was a melody that she couldn't get out of her head - something she had picked up during rehearsal. It was only when she heard footsteps that she stopped abruptly.
At the edge of the construction site, opposite the opera, stood a figure in a long coat. The man was tall and there was something almost mysterious about his posture. Catherine did not know him, but she had seen him there often in the last few days.
He stood still. Almost too still.
A shiver ran down her spine and she hastily lowered her gaze. Perhaps it was just a construction worker finishing late. Or someone who happened to be there.
But she still had the feeling that he had listened to her. And that made her heart beat faster - out of fear or something else she couldn't name.

Chapter Text

Erik was not a man to accept invitations, especially when they took him to places he never wanted to go again. And yet here he was, sitting in a box at the Royal Opera House, overlooking the stage that reminded him of all he had left behind.
Lord Ashford, his employer, had insisted.
"A man with your artistic flair should not limit himself to buildings," he had said. "You have designed my future town house to be a work of art. I am sure you appreciate a good opera performance."
Erik had found no excuse to refuse. And so here he was, wrapped in the shadows of his box, hidden from the prying eyes of the audience. His mask was discreet, an elegant construction of black leather that was more like a fashion accessory than a hiding place. In London, he was not the Phantom, just an eccentric with a penchant for anonymity.
The curtain rose. The first bars of the music sounded and Erik felt something inside him tighten. It was as if an old wound was opening up again. The voices, the orchestra, the acting - everything was so familiar and yet so far away. He had thought he had turned his back on music, but it still called to him, lured him, seduced him.

Madame Véronique Duval appeared. The prima donna of the house.
She had a powerful voice, but Erik heard what the others did not hear. The nuances, the little uncertainties, the lack of perfection. Her singing was technically brilliant, but it lacked... soul.

When the first act ended, Erik stood up to leave the box for a moment. The stuffy air, the murmuring of the guests, all of this became too much for him. He wanted to leave - but then everything changed.

Catherine hurried through the corridors behind the stage, a stack of fresh gloves and fans in her arms. The first act was over, and now the chaos began. Singers changed costumes, wigs were adjusted, and of course Madame Duval once again demanded special attention.

"Where is that stupid girl?!" her voice boomed from the dressing room.

Catherine suppressed a sigh and quickened her pace. But in her haste she did not notice the man who was just stepping out of one of the private boxes. She bumped right into him, and the silk gloves slipped from her arms, falling to the floor like floating feathers.

"Excuse me, I..." She paused.
The man was tall, with an immaculate black suit and a posture that exuded something aloof. But it was his face - or what she could see of it - that made her pause. A black mask covered the right side, leaving only a single sharp, piercing eye exposed.

He said nothing. Just looked at her.

Catherine felt her heart beating faster. Not out of fear – but because of the way he looked at her.
She hastily pulled up her gloves, forced her eyes to look down. "I'm sorry, sir."

"No need," he said finally. His voice was deep, calm, but there was something beneath it. A melody, almost like an unspoken chord.

He turned away as if nothing had happened and disappeared into the crowd.

Catherine stood there for a moment longer before an angry shout from the dressing room brought her back to reality. She couldn't allow herself to think about strange men - especially not one who looked like he had secrets as deep as the abyss.

Chapter Text

Erik had seen enough.
The performance was immaculately staged, but to him it was empty. No spark, no passion. Madame Véronique Duval was the shining prima donna of the house, but Erik heard what the audience did not hear - the lack of soul, of real devotion.
He should have left long ago, but an invisible force held him back. Perhaps it was the architecture of the building, the echo of voices echoing through the corridors. Perhaps it was just bitter nostalgia that forced him to linger a moment longer in the shadows of the opera house.
Then he heard her.
"How incredibly clumsy can a girl be?"
The voice was sharp as a blade - and it belonged to Véronique Duval.
Erik stopped. He was standing in a secluded corridor behind the stage, hidden by the heavy red curtains that led to the costume area. He leaned carefully against a marble column and watched the scene unfolding before him. Catherine stood with her head bowed before the diva, who held a precious scarf in her hands as if it were stained with dirt.

"This is pure silk from Paris, you stupid seamstress!" Véronique's voice was filled with theatrical indignation. "I demand perfection - and you serve me wrinkles and sloppiness! I wonder why they keep you here at all!"

Catherine opened her mouth as if she wanted to say something, but she closed it again. Her hands clutched the hem of her apron as if she were holding on to it.

"Well? Don't you have any excuses? No pathetic babble for me?" Véronique took a step closer, the fine fabric of her dress rustling on the floor. "Or do you think you have the right to speak?"

Erik felt his fingers clench into fists. The scene was all too familiar to him. How many times had he been told he was worthless? How many times had he been silenced, humiliated?

But before he could move, Catherine turned abruptly - and ran straight into him.

He hadn't expected her to approach him so quickly, and she didn't seem to have noticed him. Her shoulders slammed into his chest, and for a moment she instinctively clutched his sleeve to keep her balance.

Then she looked up.

Erik froze.

Tears shimmered in her eyes, and her face showed the struggle between pride and pain. Her lips trembled as if she wanted to say something, but no words came out of her mouth.

He didn't know why - but he slowly raised a hand as if to calm her down. But before he could touch her, she shook her head hastily, muttered an apology, and hurried away, still clutching her apron as if it were her last protection.

Erik watched her go. Then he turned his gaze to Véronique, who turned around smugly as if nothing had happened.
A cold smile twitched on his lips.
Maybe he had vowed not to interfere in the world of music anymore.
But he would teach this woman a lesson.

Chapter Text

Catherine knew that Madame Véronique needed a scapegoat. And today she was.
The silk scarf lay immaculately over the diva's arm, and yet she held it as if it were of inferior quality. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, her eyes sparkling with mock indignation.
"This is pure silk from Paris, you stupid seamstress!" Her voice clinked like glass in the silence of the corridor. "I demand perfection - and you serve me wrinkles and sloppiness! I wonder why they even keep you here!"
Catherine bit the inside of her cheek to force herself to remain silent.
She could not make enemies. Not here. Not with Véronique.
The opera was a world ruled by power and influence, and she was at the bottom. She was just a cloakroom attendant, a small cog in the huge machine of this house. The singers might be in the spotlight, but it was women like Catherine who worked from the shadows to make sure their dresses shone, their wigs fit, their shoes were exactly where they needed them.
It was a hard job. The pay was low. But it was a job.
And it was all she had.
"Well?" Véronique's voice had risen. "Don't you have an excuse? No pathetic babble for me?"
Catherine felt her throat tighten. But she couldn't defend herself. She couldn't give another reason to endure more ridicule.
She just wanted to get away.
Without another word, she turned abruptly and hurried down the aisle. Her vision blurred, not only from the tears she was trying to hold back, but also from the sudden urge to escape from this stifling, suffocating moment.
And then - a crash.
Something solid, warm. A resistance that made her stagger.
Reflexively, she reached for support and felt the rough fabric of a suit sleeve between her fingers. Her breath caught as she looked up.
He was tall - much taller than her. His suit was black, impeccably cut. But it was his face that captivated her. Or rather what she could see of it.
A mask. Dark and elegant, covering the right half of his face. A single, sharp eye examined her with an intensity that took the ground from under her feet.
Who was he?
A strange silence lay between them. He said nothing. Just looked at her. But unlike Véronique - without contempt. Without the triumphant glint in his eyes that she knew from so many others.
Catherine swallowed hard. She removed her fingers from his sleeve as if she had been burned.
"I'm... I'm sorry," she murmured. Her voice sounded far too quiet, far too vulnerable.
He barely moved, but he raised a hand as if to... what? Comfort her? Stop her? The gesture was so unexpected that panic rose within her. She could not allow herself to be weak, not now, not here.
"Sorry," she repeated hastily, lowered her gaze and turned around.
She fled.
Catherine turned the next corner and pressed her back against the cold stone wall. Her breathing was gasping.
She was not the kind of woman who cried. She had learned to be strong. To have to be strong. But now, in the sudden loneliness of this dark hallway, a tear ran down her cheek.
She quickly wiped it away.
Véronique was not the first person to treat her as if she were dirt beneath her feet. And she would not be the last. But Catherine knew one thing with terrifying certainty: if she lost her job, that would be the end of her.
She had no fortune, no family to support her. She could barely afford her tiny room in a run-down apartment building in Soho. And if she wasn't allowed to work anymore...
She shook the thought away.
No. She couldn't think about it. She had to pull herself together.
But this man...
His gaze hadn't left her. He had seen her. Not as an unworthy seamstress, not as a servant to the opera diva. He had simply... looked at her.
And that was perhaps the most frightening thing about it.
Catherine didn't know what it meant. And she didn't know if she even wanted to find out.

Chapter Text

Catherine hunched her shoulders as she crept through the dark hallways of the opera house. Each step echoed on the cool stone floor, but she felt as if she were carrying a burden heavier than the silence around her.
Her destination was the costume department—the only place where she felt safe.
Miss Lovewood had taken her under her wing five years ago when Catherine started her job as a simple wardrobe attendant. The older woman had stern eyes and an even sterner way of speaking, but she had taught Catherine everything she needed to know. And she was the only one in the opera house who saw Catherine not just as one of many, but as someone who mattered.
When Catherine opened the heavy door to the tailor's shop, the familiar smell of fabric, chalk, and slightly burnt candle wax enveloped her. Miss Lovewood sat at a long table, glasses on her nose, needle and thread in her skillful hands. She did not look up when Catherine came in.
"I hear your footsteps, girl. What happened?"
The familiar voice almost made Catherine lose her composure. She swallowed, trying to fight back the tears, but as she approached, Miss Lovewood put down her work and looked at her sharply.
"Come here, sit down."
Catherine sank into the old wooden chair that had been her refuge so often.
"It was Véronique again, wasn't it?" Miss Lovewood asked dryly.
Catherine nodded, lowered her eyes, and clutched the apron in her lap. "Today it was the scarf. I ironed it, it was immaculate, but..." Her voice trembled. "But that didn't matter. She needed someone to make her feel better, and I was there."
Miss Lovewood sighed softly, reached for a tape measure, only to absentmindedly put it back on the table.
"She'll never admit it, but she's scared," she said finally. Catherine blinked in surprise. "Afraid? Of what?"
"Of her time running out." Miss Lovewood folded her arms. "She's not the youngest anymore. Her voice is still strong, but she knows that someone younger will come along to replace her. And what do people do when they're afraid? They tear others down to make themselves feel bigger."
Catherine felt a lump in her throat.
"But what can I do? I can't defend myself, not really. If I lose my job, then... then I'll have nothing."
Miss Lovewood looked at her for a long time, then leaned forward and placed a warm, rough hand on hers.
"You have more than you think, child."
Catherine dropped her head. "I wish I could believe that."
Miss Lovewood looked at her thoughtfully, then straightened up a little. "Stand up."
Catherine blinked in confusion. "What?"
"Stand up," she repeated with that slight severity she always had when she was pursuing a plan.

Hesitantly, Catherine rose from her chair.

"Now sing to me."
Catherine backed away, startled. "What? No! I can't just..."
"Of course you can." Miss Lovewood leaned back, relaxed. "You're too tense. Your head is full of worries. So distract yourself. Sing me something."
Catherine felt her heart beating faster. She hadn't sung in a long time. Not consciously, not with anyone actually listening. She often hummed quietly to herself when she worked, but this was different.
"I don't know..."
Miss Lovewood looked at her calmly. "Catherine, I've heard you sing many times. You have a beautiful voice. And you need something to get you out of that hole for a moment. So do it."
Catherine swallowed hard.
Then she closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
The words of an old English song came to her mind. A lullaby that her mother had sung when Catherine was a child. Quietly, almost timidly, she began to sing.
Her voice was uncertain at first, but then it became firmer. She felt the melody flowing through her body, putting all the fear and frustration that Véronique had stirred up in her into the words.
Miss Lovewood said nothing. She just listened.
When Catherine finally let the last notes fade away, she slowly opened her eyes.
Miss Lovewood smiled.
"That, my dear, is something that no one can take away from you."
Catherine swallowed and discreetly wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.
Perhaps she had more than she thought.

Chapter Text

Erik wandered through the corridors of the opera, as silent as a shadow.
After the collision with the wardrobe clerk, he had met the director of the opera. Mr. Hargrave had stared at Erik skeptically at first, as most people do when they see him for the first time. But Lord Ashford introduced him and the director's face immediately changed when the Lord spoke to him. Erik shook the director's hand in greeting and immediately felt the many memories that were raining down on him, that just wouldn't let go of him.
He hadn't planned to stay here for so long. But after the director had invited him to look at the opera house, he had followed an inner restlessness that now drove him through the winding corridors.
It was strange to be standing in a theater again. The walls breathed history. The fine scent of wax, dust and old fabrics hung in the air, and somewhere in the distance, muffled voices echoed through the corridors. Stagehands, musicians, singers - all trapped in the world that revolved within these walls.
Erik ran his fingers along a panel and closed his eyes.
Three years.
Three years since he left Paris. Since his heart shattered into a thousand pieces.
He saw her before him. Christine. His Christine.
He remembered the night it all ended. The tremor in her voice when she told him she couldn't love him. The softness in her eyes that were only pity.
And the dagger in his chest when she kissed Raoul.
His hands clenched into fists. The pain had not gone away, only buried deeper, like a wound that never fully healed.
Christine was gone. She had chosen her life - a life in which he had no place. And he... he had retreated into the shadows, left his music behind and devoted himself to a new art: the building, the structure, the stone.
But no building, no construction, no matter how perfect, could replace what he had once lost.
A bitter smile twitched across his lips. Perhaps he had never had anything he could have lost.
But at that very moment... he heard it. A voice.
Soft at first, hesitant, then more certain. A melody that floated through the halls like a gentle echo of the past.
Erik froze. This voice... it was not like Christine's. Not trained, not trained by a master. But it was pure. It was real. Something stirred inside him.
Unconsciously he followed the sound, as if an invisible force were pulling him. His steps were silent on the floor, but his heart was pounding heavily.
He stopped in front of a door. The costume department. Through the half-open door he could see her.
A young woman, simply dressed, with her eyes downcast. Her face was not that of a diva, not marked by pride or ambition. An older woman sat opposite her and listened.
The words were English - an old lullaby. He knew it. He didn't know why he stopped, why he listened. Maybe because this voice was different. Because it wasn't singing for fame, not for recognition.
But simply because it felt it. And for a brief, fleeting moment... he felt something he hadn't felt for three years.

Chapter Text

Catherine let the last notes fade away. Her voice trembled slightly, but when it stopped, she felt... lighter.
Miss Lovewood smiled gently. "That, my dear, is something no one can take away from you."
Catherine was about to reply when she caught movement out of the corner of her eye.
Her breath caught. There, in the doorway, stood a figure.
A man - tall, dressed in dark clothing. His face was in shadow, but she recognized the distinctive shape of a mask that hid part of his face. Her heart began to beat faster. It was him. The man she had run into that afternoon.
She stared at him for a moment, unable to move. Then - almost as quickly as he had appeared - he retreated silently.
She didn't know if she had imagined it. But the door still moved slightly, as if someone had just left the room. "Catherine?"

Miss Lovewood's voice broke her stupor.

"What's wrong, child? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Catherine tried to compose herself, but her stomach felt queasy.

"T-That man..." She struggled for words as her pulse raced. "Is he following me?"

Miss Lovewood frowned. "What man?"

Catherine swallowed hard and rubbed her arms as if she could get rid of the goose bumps.

"I... I ran into him this afternoon," she began hesitantly. "Backstage. He was wearing black, and he had a mask."

Miss Lovewood raised her eyebrows. "A mask?"

Catherine nodded slowly. "He just looked at me, didn't say a word. And now... he was standing in the doorway."

Miss Lovewood studied her for a moment, then looked toward the door as if she expected the man to return. "Perhaps it was just a coincidence," she finally said. "But perhaps you should be a little more careful about who you bump into in the future."

Catherine shivered. Was it really just a coincidence? Or had this man been watching her?

"Very well, child," said Mrs. Lovewood, smoothing the fabric of her dress. "Enough excitement for today. It's time for us to go."

Catherine nodded absently, but her gaze was still wandering toward the door as if she expected the masked man to return.

"Help me put away the rolls of fabric," Miss Lovewood gently urged her.

Grateful for the distraction, Catherine did as she was told. Together they stowed away the unfinished costumes, closed the fabric boxes, and put the dressmakers' dummies in their places. Catherine made sure that all the sewing needles were safely stowed away - Miss Lovewood had a real abhorrence of needles lying around. Finally, Miss Lovewood turned off the lights and the room sank into a dim twilight.

"I assume you are going home?" asked the older woman as she locked the door to the costume department.

Catherine nodded. "Yes. It's not far for me."

"Then come, I'll at least accompany you to the exit."

They walked together through the empty corridors of the opera house. Most of the artists and stagehands had already left, and only a few voices could be heard in the distance - perhaps a last singer practicing his aria, or a stage manager who still had something to do.
Catherine felt a strange tension settle in her with each step. The thought of the masked man still haunted her, but here, next to Miss Lovewood, she felt safe.
When they finally stepped outside through the main entrance, the cool London night air enveloped them.
"Take care of yourself, Catherine," Miss Lovewood said gently.
Catherine forced a smile. "I will."
Miss Lovewood looked at her for a moment as if she wanted to say something else, but then she just shook her head slightly.
"Good night, my child."
"Good night, Miss Lovewood."
Then they parted ways.
Catherine pulled her coat tighter around herself and set off for home. But as she walked through the streets, she couldn't shake the thought that she was being watched.

Chapter Text

Erik moved like a shadow through the nighttime streets of London. The cold of the evening seemed to amplify his movements, every alley, every unlit corner offered him shelter. But despite the darkness in which he was hiding, an indefinable restlessness burned within him.
He had long since moved away from the opera, leaving the washed-out lights of the building behind him. Catherine walked in front of him, her steps were quiet, almost shy, as if she too was aware of the darkness that enveloped her.
Erik knew that he did not want to follow her any longer. But it was stronger than him. That voice that he had heard, the purity of her singing - it had awakened something in him that he could no longer suppress. He had sworn not to let himself be guided by feelings anymore. But she... she brought to life a side of him that he had long thought dead.
The streets of Soho were busier, even though the night was progressing. The sounds of the city enveloped him, but his gaze was fixed on Catherine, who was walking a few steps ahead of him. Her movements were hectic, as if she too had an uneasy feeling. Maybe it wasn't just the night that made her uncomfortable - maybe it was the thought that he was near her, that she was being watched.
But that was exactly what Erik wanted: to watch her. He wanted to know what she was thinking, what she was feeling, how she lived. A strange urge rose in him. The thought of making her part of his plan overcame him like a stream that could not be stopped.
Catherine turned into a narrow alley that he knew. Her path led to a small, inconspicuous house. It was not big, but it was her retreat, her fortress. She stepped through the narrow front door, and Erik stood there for a moment. The street was empty, only the distant murmur of the city in the distance.
He knew he had to stop here. This was the point where he had to decide what he was going to do. His heart was beating faster.
What could he do with her? What could he make of her? She was a pearl in the rough, a diamond that had not yet been recognized by the opera. Her voice was the answer to everything he missed in the opera: the soul. The devotion. The true heart of music. If he included her in his plans, he could change the Royal Opera. He could make it a place of pure art, far removed from the superficiality and vanity of the established singers and directors.
With Catherine at his side, he could take power in the opera. She was the one he needed to complete his work.
But what did that mean for her?
a cage that forced her. No. She should do it of her own choosing, she should join him because she saw the potential like he did.
He took a deep breath. The decision was hers, but he would watch her. And when the moment came, he would lead her - into the new future of opera.
He turned around as the thought of using the darkness of the night even further to free himself from his urges rose in his mind again. But the shadow that he was did not want to escape yet.

Chapter Text

The streets of Soho seemed to stretch on endlessly, the familiar path to her small house suddenly seemed far away. Catherine straightened her shoulders and tried to suppress the feeling of apprehension that had been bothering her for some time. She felt it—the feeling of being watched.
It began with a quiet, barely perceptible footstep behind her, then another that made her heart race. Her steps became more hesitant as she tried to keep quiet. But the thought that she wasn't alone crept into her mind. Her feet felt heavy, and the darkness of the streets seemed to narrow the more she turned around.
And then—a glance over her shoulder. A man.
She could only make out a vague outline of him, but his dark silhouette, blending almost too perfectly into the shadows, made her blood run cold. Her legs felt heavy as lead, and for a moment she thought she should just stop and confront him. But then she was speechless.
It was him. The man she had bumped into that afternoon.
He stood not far behind her, a few steps away, but he was following her—and she didn't know what he wanted. The sinister figure in his black coat and mask reminded her of a nightmare come true. She instinctively quickened her pace, the sense of danger she felt in the air intensifying.
The thought that he might ambush her made her stomach clench. What was he planning? Was he just a random stranger? Or was he someone stalking her? Thoughts raced through her mind as she tried not to let fear guide her.
Slowly, as if to make sure he wasn't suspecting anything, she slowed her pace. Perhaps it was a test—a game to see if he would slow down, too. He did.
Her heart raced as she realized the man was still following her, still at exactly the same distance. Panic rose within her, and the thought of him stalking her made her quicken her pace even more. She thought of her mother, whom she had left behind in that house. What would she do if something terrible happened? How would she be able to defend herself?

Her thoughts swirled as she glanced over her shoulder once more. But this time—he was closer, but he still remained at that distance. This couldn't be just a coincidence anymore. It had to be intentional.

She pulled herself together. Her feet led her almost automatically onward, onward to her home, the only safe place she knew left that night. She couldn't quite shake the feeling of panic, but the familiar image of her house in the distance calmed her somewhat. She knew she would soon be safe.
When she finally reached the door, she turned around once more. But the man was gone. Perhaps he had retreated into the shadows, or perhaps he had simply given up. But the feeling that she was being followed persisted.
She hurriedly closed the door behind her and leaned against it. Her breathing was heavy, her hands trembling. She was too exhausted to think about what she had just experienced. All she wanted was peace and quiet. She needed distance from the fear that had spread within her.
She climbed the steps to her apartment with shaky knees. She unlocked the door and stepped inside, locking it behind her. Then she changed her clothes, ready to get into bed. But her thoughts kept wandering back to the man who had followed her. What did he want? And why couldn't she stop wondering who he was and what he wanted from her?

Chapter Text

Morning came quickly, and with it the familiar weight of work. Erik got up early, his mind still heavy with the events of the previous night. He dressed in his small apartment in one of London's less busy neighborhoods. But the moment he closed the door behind him felt different. The silence was loud, the darkness pressing down on his chest.
He tried to concentrate. An architect had to work every day, refining his designs, continuing to work on the plans for the new building across from the Opera House. The structure was to be magnificent, a masterpiece. Everything had to be perfect.
But then his thoughts slipped back to her. Catherine.
It was impossible to get her out of his head. Her voice still echoed in his ears, the clarity of her tones like a sharp, sweet ache in his heart. Her face—delicate, but full of an immense strength that fascinated him—reappeared again and again in his thoughts.
What could he do with her? How could he introduce her to the world of opera? There was something so pure, so authentic, in her voice that it was almost grotesque to see her in the world of superficiality and vanity of the Royal Opera. But she could change him. She could bring what he so desperately desired: true art.
His gaze fell on the plans he had spread out on the table. But the gaze was only halfhearted. The lines on the paper blurred, and he felt the temptation to go to her again, to watch her. Something inside him longed to find her, to speak. To see her moving in this chaotic city, where darkness was only a breath away.
He took a deep breath and then shook his head.
"Focus," he murmured, as if it would help. "Focus on what lies ahead."
But thoughts of Catherine wouldn't leave him alone. The way she had moved in the night, the fear in her eyes when she felt like she was being followed.
Like an invisible observer in the darkness, who never spoke a word, who never intervened in another person's life. But this time it was different. This time he felt like she could play a role in his life, perhaps more than he himself understood.
With a quick movement, Erik grabbed a pen and began to put his thoughts on paper, but they weren't the plans for the building. No, it was a melody that suddenly echoed in his head. He had to put it on paper, or it wouldn't let him go. It was a soft, tender melody that made him think of Catherine. It was her melody.

Chapter Text

Morning broke over Soho with a dull gray. Catherine stood in front of her small mirror, her fingers gripping the frame. Her eyes were still shrouded in an invisible veil of unease from the previous night. The nightmare of being haunted had not left her. It was as if the darkness of the past few hours hovered over her, even in the bright daylight. She tried to calm herself, but every time she turned her head, she thought she saw the man's shadow in the corners of the room.
A shaky breath escaped her lips as she put on her jacket. The thought of leaving the house made her heart race. She knew she had to go shopping, that she had to go to the market to get what she lacked at home. But the world outside suddenly seemed so much bigger and more dangerous than before.
"You have to pull yourself together, Catherine," she murmured quietly to herself as she slammed the door behind her and stepped out onto the dusty streets.
The market wasn't far, just a few blocks away. Normally, she would have barely noticed it, but today, every step she took seemed heavier. Her eyes darted around nervously; every passerby, every noise made her senses overreact. She tried not to get caught—the feeling that someone was following her. But she knew it was stupid. That it was just her imagination.
But the thought wouldn't leave her alone.
The man from last night. The stranger. His presence. That dark, threatening aura that enveloped him as he walked behind her through the streets had triggered something in her. And even now, leaving her house, she felt as if followed by an invisible thread. Every time she turned around, she expected to see him somewhere in the distance, but nothing. No silhouette, no movement.
With every step she took, she became more uncertain. Her gaze wandered back, then forward, and suddenly a woman with a basket passed her. Her heart skipped a beat, and she stared at the woman in panic for a moment before forcing herself to move on.
The market appeared before her, and for a moment she felt a little safer, surrounded by the busy people trading their wares. It was just everyday life, but everyday life felt strange today. She hurried past the stalls, looking for the things she needed—fresh vegetables, some spices, a piece of bread. But every time someone crossed her path, she felt trapped.
A quick glance over her shoulder, again. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, but there was no one there. Just an old woman with a basket. A few children running past her, laughing. Everything seemed normal, but her mind was raging with uncertainty.
She tried to calm herself, but the thought that she was being followed had become embedded in her, like thorns in her skin. She pushed her way past the stalls, searching for a familiar face. But everything was empty, uninvolved, and she was sure it was just her imagination.
"What's wrong with me?" she whispered to herself as she stopped at a vegetable stand, trying to keep her hands still.
The man wasn't there. No one was there. It was all just her imagination.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then exhaled. Again and again. The cold wind blowing through the alleys brought her back to reality. She forced a smile as she talked to the saleswoman, changed some coins, and picked up the basket of groceries.
The walk home was less arduous. Her thoughts were still a jumble of uncertainty and wondering what was going on inside her. But when she finally stood in front of the door again, she took a deep breath and leaned against the wood.
No pursuers. No man from the night.
She had been wrong. It had all been in her head. And perhaps that was the most frightening part of it all—how the fears of the darkness overwhelmed her, even in the light of day.
With a sigh, she opened the door and stepped back into her apartment.

Chapter Text

Catherine placed her shopping basket on the small table in the kitchen and took a deep breath. The day was gray, and the gloomy mood that had accompanied her the whole time showed no signs of abating. It was as if the shadow of the pursuer she had felt yesterday was still there, enveloping her from all sides. But now, at home, she wanted to try to calm herself down again. Her small home offered a moment of safety, a moment in which she could forget the world around her.
She quickly put away the groceries, stuffed fresh vegetables into the pantry, and put the bread on the table. Her heart was still beating faster than usual, and her thoughts were a chaotic jumble. Maybe it was the stress of the last few days, maybe it was the constant fear of being followed. But she had to concentrate. She had work to do.
Before she left for work, she needed to eat something, so she decided to cook.
She reached for a pot, filled it with water, and placed it on the fire. Today she wanted to make something simple, something that would calm her—a vegetable soup. It wasn't anything elaborate, but the scent of fresh herbs and vegetables would hopefully distract her a little from the dark thoughts that plagued her.

But as she placed the pot on the fire and brought the water to a boil, her mind began to wander again. It was as if she couldn't shake the ghosts of last night. She tried to relax by peeling the potatoes and preparing the vegetables, but it was difficult to clear her mind.

Suddenly, a strong aroma filled the air—burning. Catherine jumped and looked at the fire in alarm. She had forgotten to stir the pot.

"Oh no!" She grabbed a wooden spoon. Her hands trembled as she began to stir. Her heart raced as she struggled to save the disaster.

" "Why?" she muttered desperately, staring at the chaos she'd created. Her thoughts were so scattered that she'd lost control. Why couldn't she shake this uneasy feeling?
She stared at the stove as the vegetables continued to bubble in her pot. Everything had to be right. She had to do it right.
"Calm down... Calm down, Catherine." She forced herself to take a deep breath. Her heart was pounding in her chest, but she knew she had to pull herself together.
With a quick grab, she pulled a box of fresh herbs from the cupboard. The fine leaves were fragrant as she ground them. Slowly, she began to stir the pot, and the scent of fresh herbs mingled with the steaming vegetables. It was a comforting scent that managed to calm her a little.
Despite her nervous thoughts, she sat down on a chair and began to hum softly to herself to calm herself. The words came unconsciously. It was a simple song she hadn't sung in a long time, a song she had sung as a child when she felt anxious.
"Hush, little baby, don't say a word..."
Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper, but she found comfort in the melodies she drew from within. It wasn't much, but it helped. It helped to muffle the noise in her head and calm the rising panic.
The vegetables continued to cook, and after a few minutes, the soup was finally ready. The aroma was comforting and promising. Catherine sighed with relief and filled a small bowl with the soup. The flavor wasn't perfect yet, but it was edible. She could feel the relief in her shoulders as she took a spoonful and slowly tasted it.
The taste was comforting, but she knew she couldn't linger long. Time was passing, and she still had work to do. She had to go to the opera to fulfill her obligations. The thought of it made her shoulders feel heavier again.
She quickly put the bowl aside, changed her clothes, and tried to quickly stow the rest of the food. Her thoughts seemed to be turning against her again. Was it really wise to go to work? Could she leave her fears outside? She sighed and closed the door behind her as she left the house.
The day was waiting for her, but she didn't know what it still held in store for her.

Chapter Text

Erik sat at his desk, the paper in front of him, the one he had held as he sketched the outlines of his thoughts. But what he saw before him were not the clean lines of a design, nor the precise details of a building. Instead, his fingers had written the movements of a melody.
He looked at the paper as if it might stare back at him. The notes stretched across the pages at irregular intervals, a melody he hadn't controlled, but had escaped his thoughts. It wasn't what he had in mind. His original idea—the designs for the building—had faded into the background as this melody took center stage.
Frustration surged through him. Why couldn't he find the thread he so desperately needed? Why did this music keep creeping into his thoughts, even when he was trying to concentrate on his work?
He jumped abruptly from his chair, the chair creaking softly as he turned away. He took one last look at the paper, then reached for his coat. The feeling of tightness in his chest grew. The walls around him seemed to be closing in, and he desperately needed air.
He walked briskly to the door and stepped onto the balcony of the townhouse he had to complete. The cold wind blew against him as he grabbed the railing and took a deep breath. He felt as if he could no longer shake the fog of thoughts enveloping him. He kept thinking about Catherine. It was almost as if she still stole his heart, even without her near.
Thoughts of her, her voice, her face, the fear he'd seen in her eyes—they occupied him in a way he couldn't control. And now, the melody he'd written was not just a distraction from his work, but also a reminder of her.
Suddenly, he felt something. A movement. Something that caught his attention.
He took a step forward and looked down at the street. The twilight obscured the surroundings, but there, amidst the silhouette of the Opera House, he saw her. Catherine.
She was walking down the street, her head bowed, as if lost in her own thoughts. Her pace was quick, almost as if she were about to leave the place she was leaving behind. The sight swept him away, and a faint but steady pounding began to beat in his chest.
He knew he was watching her, but he couldn't stop himself. Her figure in the distance made him step to the edge of the precipice, as if calling to him through the darkness. Without really realizing it, he leaned even further forward, as if he needed to be closer to her, simply needed to see her.
Catherine walked past the opera house, and he could no longer see her gaze, yet he knew she was uncertain as she walked down the streets. The thought of the fear he had seen in her eyes drove him almost mad. Could he really remain only a silent observer in her life?
Her presence acted like a magnet, drawing him to her, driving him to speak to her, to ask her what she felt, what she thought. But he knew he could never speak to her without seeing the fear in her. He knew that.
He fell back into the shadow of the balcony and pressed his hand against the railing. The melody he had written remained in his head like a whisper, growing louder. But he couldn't escape.
He knew he would haunt her, no matter how hard he fought it. The darkness he had feared for so long had become a part of him. And Catherine was the last spark of light that kept him in this world. But he knew he wasn't the man who could bring her peace. She would never know who he truly was.
He closed his eyes, wondering how much longer he could stay in the darkness before it consumed him.

Chapter Text

The day began with an uneasy tension, which Catherine felt as soon as she entered the opera house. The air was stuffy, and the hubbub of voices and hectic activity immediately drew her into the familiar hustle and bustle of the opera house. But despite her usual routine, everything was different today. Her thoughts were still on the events of the previous night, on the unease she felt when she thought she was being followed. The idea that someone was watching her every move was hard to shake, and it seemed as if she couldn't concentrate on what lay ahead.
She quickly went to the costume department, but the thought that something might go wrong kept haunting her. Maybe it was the pressure of the last few days, maybe it was the fear of being involved in something she didn't understand... Either way... today just wasn't her day.
"Catherine, what's wrong with you?" Miss Lovewood asked, looking worried when she saw her at the department door. "You look like you've been up all night."
Catherine forced a smile, but it seemed forced. "It's nothing, Miss Lovewood. Just... a lot on your mind."
"You need to pull yourself together, Catherine," Miss Lovewood said, settling into her usual calm posture. "We can't afford any mistakes, not today. The Diva premieres tonight, and that means stress. You know what she's like."
Catherine nodded silently, her hands shaking slightly as she tried to prepare the right costume for the prima donna. She could barely concentrate on her work. Her thoughts kept returning to the man who had stalked her all night, and it was hard to focus on the light, delicate fabrics she held.
The buzzing and hectic energy around her didn't help. And then, as she was mending a seam on her dress, it happened: She cut her finger with the scissors.
"Damn!" The pain made her flinch briefly, but the reflection of the bloody cut made her even more nervous. She hastily wiped the reddening finger and tried to compose herself. But she knew it wasn't a good start to the day.
Just as she wrapped the bloody finger in a cloth, she heard the familiar, threatening sound of high heels on the hard floor of the opera house. A cool, authoritative voice reached her ear.
"Catherine!"
It was the diva. Her gaze was cold and sharp, and Catherine knew what that meant. The opera diva was a master at turning even the smallest inaccuracy into an earth-shattering incident, and today was no exception. She approached Catherine and stared at her with a look that boded ill.
"What is this?" The diva looked at the dress Catherine was holding. "You had so much time to take care of this detail, and what happens? You manage to ruin the costume before it's even been worn!"
Catherine stepped back involuntarily. The sharp tone in the diva's voice made her knees go weak. "I'm sorry, I..."
"You're sorry? That's the only thing you can always say, Catherine. You're not a novice anymore! You've taken on this responsibility, and yet you still manage to make mistakes. That's unacceptable!" The diva stared at her so intensely that Catherine felt quite small.
The other employees of the house also stood there, holding their breath, knowing that the diva rarely completed her "education" without a public spectacle. Catherine felt as if she were under a magnifying glass. Every step, every look was too much.
"You know how important this performance is to me tonight, Catherine. And you simply can't get in my way with mistakes like this!"
The diva's words hit her hard. Catherine felt the shame rising within her. She couldn't believe she'd failed so badly today. She knew the diva wouldn't forgive her, and the thought of what that would mean for her job made it even harder.
"Sorry..." she almost whispered as she doubled over and lowered her gaze to the floor.
"Enough apologizing!"
The diva turned abruptly and disappeared with one last condescending look. Her high heels echoed behind her like a judgment.
Catherine sat staring at the failed costume, feeling disappointment deep within. The feeling of inadequacy overwhelmed her, and her mind swirled. She knew the pressure on her was almost crushing her. And now, with this new defeat, the fear grew that she would no longer be able to hold on to her place here. How could she continue if she only kept making things worse?

Chapter Text

After seeing Catherine enter the opera house, Erik had followed her. He had long since put his plans aside and moved away from the walls of the building, only to find in the corridors of the opera the peace he had so desperately lacked in recent days. The oppressive weight of his thoughts about Catherine, the restlessness within him, all of it wouldn't leave him until he was near her. Where the opera had initially made him feel so confined because of his past, now it was as if the building magically attracted him, and all because of her voice. He just couldn't get her out of his mind.
As he walked through the corridors, he realized how connected he now felt to the opera—to the entire building, the sounds, and the people. It was the place where he didn't feel like a stranger. Perhaps it was the melancholy of the place, the memories of Paris that seemed to flow from every corner. Music that had awakened in him again today.
But then, as he passed a half-open door, he stopped abruptly. There she was. Catherine.
She was sitting at her work table in the costume department, her shoulders hunched forward, as if she could no longer bear the weight of the world. Her hands trembled slightly, and her face was marked by deep despair and sadness. She was still in her work clothes, but the colors of the day seemed to have drained from her face. The tension betrayed by her muscles made Erik hold his breath.
Without her noticing him, he crept closer and leaned against the doorframe. He could feel the trembling in her hands, the sense of being overwhelmed that so obviously pervaded her. She seemed so vulnerable, so helpless in that moment.
His heart clenched. In those moments, which revealed only a hint of the full tragedy of her life, he felt pity stir within him. She had abandoned the world and pushed herself into the storm of life by those around her. But more than that, she was a woman who, like him, was on the verge of breaking under life's pressure.
He couldn't help but go to her. But instead of simply showing himself or speaking to her, he softly hummed a melody. A melody that came from his own worries and loneliness, but also from a calm he wanted to convey to her.
It was a melody that came from the old days, from those moments when, years ago, he had tried to reassure Christine in the darkness of his own world. But it wasn't just for her. It was also for Catherine, who, in this hour, sought comfort just as he had then. The tones Erik hummed were soft and flowing, almost like a wind blowing through the empty halls of the opera. A melody that filled the room, enveloping it with a certain sense of security. It was almost a whisper, so quiet, yet so haunting.
Catherine heard it. At first, she felt the melody would only plunge her deeper into her sorrow. But as she listened closely, something began to change within her. The notes of the song seemed to ease her tension. Her shoulders slumped a little, and the cold, hard expression on her face began to fade.
She raised her gaze and looked through the half-open door—and then her eyes met Erik's. She froze. Her thoughts seemed to tangle as she took in the shape of his outline, the stillness emanating from him. In that moment, she didn't immediately understand what she was feeling. But what she felt was no longer fear or uncertainty. A feeling of calm spread through her.
"Who..." she whispered almost inaudibly, but she didn't know if she was asking herself or him.
Erik resumed his melody, and she closed her eyes for a moment. The sound was soothing, almost healing, as if it were made for her. It was the melody of someone longing for peace—for a quiet moment unclouded by the shadows of the world.

Chapter Text

Catherine was dazed by the calm the melody had evoked in her. It was a strange, almost dreamlike feeling that gripped her at that moment. But when the melody faded and silence fell again over the costume department, she awoke from her trance-like reverie. Her mind raced, and her curiosity overcame the fear she had felt before.
She jumped to her feet and hurried to the door, the urge to find the secret musician overcoming her with an intensity she could no longer stop. Her steps were hurried as she opened the door a crack and headed out into the opera's corridor.
There, in the distance, she saw him.
He stood there, just for a moment, near the shadows of the passage. But when he noticed her following him, he quickened his pace, as if trying to flee.
Catherine was struck by lightning. The man—the stranger who had followed her, the one who had sung that melody to her—tried to move away.
"Wait!" Her voice trembled as she hurried the few steps toward him.
It was as if she were acting in a moment of doubt and confusion. But the thought that this stranger might simply want to leave her behind without revealing his identity sent a new wave of uncertainty through her body. She knew she wasn't just talking about a simple musician or a mysterious observer. It was more than that.
Her hand reached for his; he hesitated, but she managed to hold on. Her fingers closed around his arm, and she forced herself to look up at him.
"Who are you?" Her voice was firm, but deep down, she still harbored doubts. Her question wasn't just about his identity, but also about his purpose. Why had he been watching her? Why had he been interested in her?
Erik felt her grip on his arm briefly freeze him. A flicker of uncertainty shot through him. His thoughts, which had previously been clear and orderly, were now jumbled together. He knew he couldn't just run away. He had to tell her the truth, or at least part of it. But how could he explain himself? How could he open up to someone who didn't know who he really was?
"I..." Erik began, taking a moment to gather his words. It wasn't easy to speak in this moment, not after what Christine had done to him. But he knew there was no way back. The woman before him, Catherine, deserved to hear the truth—or at least part of it.
"I'm Erik," he said quietly, his voice steady, but with a hint of nervousness. "And... I followed you because I... because I heard you. Your voice. It touched me."
He tried to remain calm while he found the words to ease the vague tension growing within him. "I'm sorry if it frightened you. But I simply wanted to know who you were, why... why your voice sounded so familiar. Something inside me wanted to know more about you."
Catherine stared at him, her grip on his arm tightening a little, but her thoughts were a jumble. "What do you want from me? Why did you sing that melody to me?"
Erik sighed softly. He knew this question was coming. "I simply wanted to give you... some of what once calmed me. Something that helped me survive in the darkness," he explained carefully. "I... I'm not like the others. I've done things in the past that are hard to explain, but believe me, I don't want to harm anyone."
Catherine looked at him with a mixture of fascination and caution. It wasn't that she didn't believe him—she sensed the authenticity in his words—but the situation was so eerie. She had never met a stranger who brought so many secrets with him. And yet, something about him felt familiar, almost like an echo from a time she couldn't quite comprehend.
"Then why are you following me?" she asked, her voice trailing off. It was a mixture of fear and curiosity that drove her to continue searching for answers.
Erik looked at her for a long moment, then looked away. "It's hard to explain. I wanted to see if there was a way to help you. Your voice—it awakened something in me. Something I thought long lost. Maybe that's why I'm here," he finally said, lowering his gaze.
For a moment, there was silence between them. Catherine felt the tension in the air thicken. She didn't know what to make of him. But one thing was clear: the man before her was no ordinary stranger. It was as if he had called something to her from the darkness, something she couldn't even explain to herself.
"What do you want from me?" she asked quietly, her hand still on his arm.

Chapter Text

The silence between Erik and Catherine was almost tangible. As she still looked at him with an undecided gaze, she knew something was different about this encounter. It wasn't just the melody that connected him to her, or the enigmatic, silent man before her. It was something much deeper—a feeling she couldn't immediately name. And it frightened her in equal measure and aroused a strange curiosity.
But Erik, holding onto her arm, seemed to be caught up in his own thoughts. His eyes were fixed on the floor, as if trying to find the right words, but they seemed to elude him. Catherine felt him hesitate, as if wrestling with himself, making a decision that wasn't easy.
"I…" Erik began, his voice uncertain, "I want you to do more with your voice. You have a great talent. An extraordinary talent." He raised his gaze, and there was a kind of urgency in his eyes. "I want to train you, Catherine. You could become the next great opera diva."
Catherine stared at him as if he had just spoken in a language she didn't understand. Her grip on his arm loosened, and she took a step back. Her eyes widened as she tried to comprehend what he had just said.
"What... what do you mean?" Her voice was a hint of confusion and a touch of sarcasm. She simply couldn't believe what she was hearing. "The next opera diva?"
Erik nodded slowly. "Yes, you have the potential, Catherine. Your voice—it has the ability to conquer the world. But you must learn to control it, to master it. I can help you find the right technique. I can guide you to discover your true strength."
Catherine shook her head in disbelief. The words he spoke seemed so foreign to her, so far removed from the reality she faced every day. A talent like hers wasn't something anyone talked about at the London Opera—let alone that she was destined for such a role. She had never believed she could be more than the humble dresser she was every day in the shadowy corners of the opera house.
A bitter laugh rose within her, a laugh borne of a mixture of despair and disbelief. "You must be joking," she said, placing her hand to her forehead. "Me... an opera diva? Look at me! I'm not a singer. I'm a dresser. I take care of the clothes... I have no business being on stage."
She laughed again, but this time it sounded sharp and almost sad. "I never learned to sing properly. I never had any training. The idea that I..." She trailed off, unsure if she could even put her thoughts into words.Erik looked at her for a long moment, as if he could see into her inner self. "You don't need formal training, Catherine. Not like other singers. Your voice is unique. It's raw, unpolished, but it carries a power that many will never achieve. It's not just about technique, it's about the soul. Your soul, reflected in your voice."
Catherine backed away again, thoughts swirling in her head like a storm. What he said felt like a dream—a distant, unattainable dream she'd never dared to dream. "And what if you're wrong? What if I fail? What if I just can't do it?" Her voice was barely above a whisper.
"You won't fail," Erik said, his voice firm and determined. "I'll make sure you don't. I won't give up on you."
Catherine stood silent for a moment, her mind on the words he'd spoken. She still couldn't believe it. It wasn't just the fact that he was offering to train her, but the sincerity with which he said it all. It was as if he were designing a future for her that she herself could never have imagined. Yet this future he was offering her seemed so distant, so unrealistic. She knew she wasn't the one taking center stage.
"And why me?" she asked finally, her voice trembling slightly even as she tried to remain calm. "Why do you think I can do it?"
Erik took a step closer, his eyes never leaving her. "Because you can. I feel like we're both searching for something we're missing. I see in you what I once saw in myself. It's not just about singing, it's about the passion that burns within you. You just have to learn to unleash it."
Catherine looked down at her hands, then back up into his eyes. Something inside her began to resist, but at the same time, she felt a strange mixture of desire and fear. What if he was right? What if she'd never really given herself a chance to be more? But the fear of overexerting herself and failing also overwhelmed her.
"I can't..." she said quietly, almost to herself. "I can't believe this is true."
Erik took a step back and sighed softly. "You don't have to right away. But think about it, Catherine. If you ever feel the desire to try, I'll be here."
The words echoed in her mind as she watched him retreat back into the darkness of the opera without saying anything else. The idea of ​​becoming an opera diva lingered like a shadow in her mind, lingering. Yet she couldn't deny that something inside her, a tiny spark that had been buried deep until now, was beginning to smolder.

Chapter Text

Catherine returned to the costume department after Erik disappeared. His words echoed in her mind, mingling with the doubts and fears that had accompanied her her entire life. "The next great opera diva... I will train you... You will not fail."
She shook her head. It was absurd. Impossible.
How could a man she barely knew be so confident in her, when she had never considered herself more than a simple wardrobe assistant? She didn't even know how to go through proper vocal training, and yet Erik had spoken of something that sounded like destiny.
After work, she returned to her house, but her thoughts wouldn't leave her. While she ate, while she washed the dishes, even as she went to bed—Erik and his offer haunted her.
She had never had big dreams. The mere thought that she could be a famous singer almost made her laugh. And yet... deep inside, there was this tiny spark. A spark she had never nurtured.
The next morning
Catherine was sleep-deprived and distracted when she arrived at the opera. Her thoughts were still with Erik, but as she stepped into the dressing rooms, she was quickly brought back to harsh reality.
"There you are at last," an arrogant voice called out. Catherine froze. Veronique.
The prima donna of the Royal Opera stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by half a dozen stagehands and costume designers, all bustling around her. Her ostentatious dress was made of heavy, deep red velvet, and she held a wine glass in her hand—a violation of the rules, but no one dared to point it out.
Catherine lowered her gaze and started to slip past her unobtrusively, but then Veronique spoke directly to her.
"Oh, Catherine. Come here. Now."
Catherine gritted her teeth and obeyed. She knew that dissent would only lead to worse behavior.
"Well?" asked Veronique, demonstratively taking a sip of red wine. "Will you be as useless today as you were yesterday?"
Catherine swallowed her anger and was about to reply when it happened.
With a casual movement, Veronique tipped the wine glass to the side—intentionally or not, it was impossible to say—and the dark red wine spilled over the expensive dress Catherine had just ironed that morning.
"Oh," said Veronique in exaggerated indignation, looking at Catherine with a raised eyebrow. "Catherine, what have you done? You really are as incompetent as I expected."
Catherine froze.
This wasn't her fault. Everyone in the room knew that. And yet no one dared to contradict Veronique. Instead, some stagehands began to look pityingly at the floor or walk away from the scene.
Veronique put on her fake, victorious smile. "Well, I hope you can fix this. But what can anyone expect from such an insignificant person as you?"
These words cut Catherine deep. Insignificant.
Her hands clenched into fists as Veronique turned away as if she were no longer worth mentioning. Catherine felt anger rising within her—an anger born of years of humiliation.
But then another thought flashed through her mind.
What if Erik is right? What if she could be more? What if she didn't have to stay in this submissive position forever?
The spark that had been created the night before flared up. She wouldn't be Veronique's doormat forever. Catherine lifted her head and took a deep breath. She knew what she had to do.

Chapter Text

Catherine stood motionless while Veronique flashed her triumphant smile. The diva had triumphed once again—or at least she thought so. But today would be different. Today was the day Catherine refused to back down.
With a deep breath, she straightened her shoulders and took a step forward, closer to Veronique than she had ever dared.
"Enough."
The word wasn't loud, but it echoed through the room as if she had shouted it. Silence fell. The other wardrobe attendants, stagehands, and tailors paused, their gazes flickering between the two women.
Veronique raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Pardon?"
Catherine folded her arms across her chest. "I said, enough is enough. I will no longer be your doormat."
A murmur ran through the room. No one had ever dared to challenge Veronique so openly. The diva blinked in confusion for a moment, then her face twisted into an amused grimace.
"Oh, really?" Her voice dripped with mockery. "And what exactly are you going to do about it, hm? Complain? To whom? Do you think anyone here would support you?"
Catherine was undeterred. She felt years of frustration and humiliation building up in her chest—and instead of swallowing it, this time she let it out. The cup had simply overflowed.
"I don't care whether anyone supports me or not," she said firmly. "All I know is that I'm not going to put up with this anymore. You can insult me ​​all you want, Veronique, but I won't remain silent anymore. And if you think I'm afraid of you—you're sorely mistaken."
Veronique stared at her as if she couldn't believe what she was hearing. Then she shook her head and laughed coldly. "You'll regret this, little one. No one stands up to me and goes unpunished."
Catherine shrugged. "Then try it. But if you're really as great as you always claim, then you shouldn't have to deal with a mere wardrobe mistress, right?"
Some of those present snorted in amusement, others held their breath. Veronique seemed speechless for a moment, but then she snorted contemptuously, turned on her heel, and swept away with her head held high.
The silence she left behind was almost oppressive.
Catherine exhaled shakily. Her hands were sweaty, her heart racing. She had done it. She had finally fought back. But now what?
Without looking at anyone else, she turned and marched out of the dressing room. She needed fresh air.

Outside in the corridor

Catherine stormed through the corridors of the opera, her thoughts still in chaos. She didn't know whether she should be proud of herself or if she'd just dug her own grave. Veronique wasn't just a singer—she was the singer. If she wanted, she could ruin Catherine with a word.
Maybe I'll be fired tomorrow...
But deep down, Catherine knew she didn't want to risk her dignity any longer.
Just as she turned a corner, she almost collided with a tall figure: Erik.
He stood there, appearing out of nowhere, with that piercing gaze that always unnerved her. His dark coat made him seem even more menacing than usual, but today Catherine wasn't afraid of him.
He looked at her silently for a moment, as if reading her every emotion. Then he inclined his head slightly. "You look... determined."
Catherine swallowed and then nodded slowly. "I've made a decision."
Erik raised an eyebrow.
She clenched her hands into fists to force herself to say it out loud. "I want to accept your instruction."
For a moment, he said nothing, as if considering whether she was serious. Then a hint of satisfaction seemed to cross his face.
"Interesting," he finally said quietly.
"But," Catherine added hastily, "it must be done in secret. No one can know about it. And I will continue to do my work here as long as they don't throw me out."
Erik regarded her with an indefinable expression. Finally, he nodded slowly. "Very well. Then we'll start tomorrow evening, after your shift, at the townhouse across the street."
He turned and left.
Catherine watched him go and took a deep breath. She realized she had now made a decision that was about to change her life forever...

Chapter Text

Catherine barely had time to process her decision when one of the opera's assistants intercepted her with a stern expression.
"The director wants to see you in his office immediately," the woman said in a cool voice.
Catherine felt her stomach tighten. Of course. She had known that her resistance to Veronique would not be without consequences. Tensing her back, she followed the assistant through the long, ornate hallways of the opera until she stopped in front of a heavy door with a brass handle.
The assistant knocked briefly, then opened the door and gestured for Catherine to enter.
The director's office was spacious but gloomy. Bookshelves filled with sheet music and operatic texts lined the walls, and stacks of paper piled high on the massive desk. Directly behind it sat Director Edwin Hargrave, a man in his late fifties with a piercing gaze and a stern expression.
"Miss Moore." His voice was calm, but it carried a cutting edge. "Sit down."
Catherine obeyed, while the director pressed his fingers together and studied her.
"I heard you had an... incident with Madame Veronique today."
Catherine pressed her lips together. Of course, Veronique had complained immediately. She had probably twisted the story to make Catherine look like a disrespectful, rebellious employee.
"Yes, sir," she said carefully.
Hargrave raised an eyebrow. "I don't take kindly to disturbances in my house, Miss Moore. You're a mere dresser—it's not for you to pick a fight with one of our leading singers."
Catherine felt anger rising within her, but she held it back. "Sir, with all due respect—she has bullied me for years. I can't imagine the Opera would be interested in an environment where that would be permitted."
Hargrave leaned back and regarded her appraisingly. "Do you really think the world of opera is a friendly place, Miss Moore? Artists are temperamental. You have to know when to adapt."
Catherine met his gaze with renewed determination. "And when to stop putting up with everything."
The director snorted. "I could dismiss you for your disrespect."
Catherine held her breath. Was this the end? Had she only made things worse for herself?
Before Hargrave could continue, however, the door opened—and a resolute figure entered.
Mrs. Lovewood.
The head of costume had a grim expression on her face as she stood directly beside Catherine. "Forgive the interruption, Director Hargrave. But I think I should speak on this matter."
Hargrave grimaced, but he nodded, albeit reluctantly.
Mrs. Lovewood crossed her arms. "Catherine is one of the hardest-working members of my team. I trained her, and I know her worth. She does her work with the utmost care—unlike certain other ladies who prefer to dwell on drama rather than their actual art."
Hargrave curled his lips. "Are you here to tell me how to treat my employees, Mrs. Lovewood?"
"I'm here to tell you that you would lose a good worker if you fire Catherine," she replied firmly. "And that it certainly wouldn't be good for the reputation of the opera if it became known that you blindly believe a diva known for bullying others."
Catherine stared at her mentor in surprise. She had known Mrs. Lovewood liked her—but her standing up for her like this almost brought tears to her eyes.
Hargrave drummed his fingers on the tabletop. Finally, he sighed. "I understand. Miss Moore will not be dismissed."
Catherine breathed a sigh of relief. But then Hargrave added with a thin smile, "But some punishment is necessary. So she learns to restrain herself in the future."
Catherine straightened tensely. "What punishment?"
The headmaster leaned back into his chair. "You will clean the stage after the performances today. It is a simple but tiring task. Perhaps it will help you better understand your place here."
Catherine gritted her teeth. It was humiliating—and that was precisely the intention. But compared to dismissal, it was a small price to pay.
She nodded slowly. "Understood, sir."
Hargrave waved a hand dismissively. "Good. Then be off you go before I change my mind."
Catherine rose, and Mrs. Lovewood escorted her out. As the door closed behind them, the older woman placed a hand on her shoulder.
"Well done, girl," she said quietly. "You fought back, and that's more than many here would ever do."
Catherine swallowed the lump in her throat. "Thank you, Mrs. Lovewood. Without you, I would have lost my job."
The woman smiled thinly. "Perhaps. But I think you would have found a way to stand up for yourself."
Catherine didn't know if she believed that. But as she prepared for today's punishment, she felt something like hope for the first time in a long time.

Chapter Text

Catherine knelt on the cold wooden floorboards of the stage, her knees aching, scrubbing at stains of spilled wine and wax with a brush. Her back ached, her fingers were sore, and the bitter smell of the cleaning water burned her nose. The audience had long since left, as had the musicians and singers—only the occasional flicker of the gas lamps accompanied her in the dark silence of the theater.
She gritted her teeth and continued scrubbing. This punishment was meant to humiliate her, to keep her small. But she would survive. She wouldn't let Hargrave or Veronique break her.
A faint sound made her pause. Footsteps. Light, almost silent, but Catherine felt them more than heard them. She raised her head and looked around.
At the edge of the stage stood a tall figure, shrouded in darkness. Erik.
"Well," he said calmly, his voice barely above a whisper, yet carrying effortlessly through the empty room. "So this is the punishment for your courage."
Catherine leaned back and brushed a stray strand of hair from her face, leaving a trail of soapy water on her cheek. "How long have you been standing there?"
"Long enough."
She snorted softly. "So you've been reveling in my misery?"
"Reveling? No." He stepped closer until the light from the stage lamps touched his face, half-hidden by his mask. "But it confirms what I already knew—the opera is a place of vanity and pride. And you've offended a pride."
Catherine laughed dryly. "That's a nice euphemism for 'I've alienated a diva.'"
Erik let his gaze wander over the stage that had once been so familiar. "So you've decided to stop being pushed around."
She nodded and continued scrubbing the area in front of her. "Yes. And I guess that means I'll have to scrub away more of this dirt if I want to keep my job."
There was a brief silence before she looked up and met his dark eyes. "Tell me about yourself."
Erik didn't move. "Why?"
"Because you want to be my mentor," she said simply. "And if I'm going to work with you, I want to know who I'm dealing with."
"You know what you need to know."
"So nothing."
He tilted his head slightly to the side. "You know I want to teach you. You know I know more about music than anyone here. And you know I have the resources to make you the best singer this house has ever seen. What else do you want to know?"
Catherine sat back on her heels and studied him. "Everything. Where you come from. Why you chose me. Why you shroud yourself in shadow instead of taking the stage yourself."
His face remained impassive, but his voice grew colder. "My life doesn't matter."
"Maybe not for you. But for me, yes."
Another silence. Then, finally, a soft laugh. But it sounded bitter.
"You're curious, Miss Moore."
"And you're secretive."
"That's a necessity."
Catherine bit her lip. She sensed she wouldn't get any answers. Not today. Perhaps never. But something about him wouldn't let her go—a mystery she couldn't decipher.
Finally, she sighed and turned back to her cleaning rag. "Then at least tell me how you'll teach me."
He seemed to like that better. A hint of satisfaction crept into his voice. "Discipline. Technique. Expression. Everything a true singer needs. And you'll practice until you've mastered it to perfection."
She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. "Sounds exhausting."
"It will be."
Catherine sighed theatrically and continued scrubbing. "Then I hope it's worth it."
Erik looked at her for a long time before saying quietly, "It will be."
And with those words, he turned and disappeared into the shadows.

Chapter Text

Catherine couldn't suppress a smile as Veronique narrowed her eyes at her. The diva was having a particularly hard time unsettling Catherine today with her usual barbed remarks. But instead of getting upset, Catherine responded with a calm and self-satisfaction that infuriated Veronique.
"You must not have worked hard enough yesterday if you still have the energy to grin like that," Veronique hissed, applying her makeup with sweeping gestures in front of the mirror.
Catherine shrugged. "Oh, believe me, I cleaned every single corner of the stage. But it was worth it."
Veronique grimaced. "Worth it? Why should it be worth it to clean up the mess others leave behind?"
Catherine leaned slightly against the door and replied with mock seriousness, "Because it showed me that I'm stronger than you think."
Veronique glared at her. Catherine had seen through her little games. She wanted a reaction from her—frustration, humiliation, anger. But Catherine wasn't having any more of that. She let Veronique run into the void, and that made the diva almost angrier than if Catherine had actually fought back.

With one last venomous remark, Veronique turned and marched off, while Catherine exhaled triumphantly. She hadn't won the fight—but she had accomplished something far more important. She had proven to herself that Veronique no longer controlled her.

—

After work, Catherine made her way to the building Erik was building across from the opera house. It was an impressive structure made of pale stone with large windows shimmering in the dim light of the lanterns. The interior was still unfinished—scaffolding, wooden beams, and unfinished walls stood everywhere. But amidst this raw construction site, there was a single room that was almost complete: a large hall with high ceilings, perfect for sound to propagate.
Erik was already standing there, expectant, his arms crossed. "You're on time," he observed.
Catherine shook off her coat. "I thought it would be wise not to keep my teacher waiting."
"Wise," he repeated with a hint of satisfaction. Then he pointed to the center of the room. "Stand there."
Catherine did as she was told, while Erik slowly walked around her. "Sing something for me."
"What should I sing?"
"It doesn't matter. Anything."
Catherine hesitated. Then she began to sing a simple melody—a song her mother used to sing for her when she was a child. She sang it as she always had, without much thought, just by feel.
When she finished, Erik nodded slowly. "Your voice is pure. But you're not using it properly."
Catherine blinked. "What do you mean?"
He stepped closer. "You sing as if you're hiding. You're holding back your voice instead of letting it develop to its full potential."
"I sing as I always do."
"Then you're doing it wrong."
She opened her mouth to reply, but Erik raised a hand. "Take a deep breath."
Catherine did.
"No. Wrong." He shook his head. "You breathe into your chest. The air needs to go deeper into your body. Into your diaphragm."
"My what?"
Erik sighed and stepped behind her. "Put one hand on your stomach."
Hesitantly, she did.
"Now take another breath—but this time so your hand rises."
Catherine tried. It felt strange, unfamiliar, but sure enough, her hand rose slightly.
"Better," Erik said. "Not enough. Try again."
She took another breath, more consciously this time.
"Good." Erik nodded. "That's the basis of everything. Without proper breathing, there is no singing."
Catherine sighed. "And I thought I just had to use my voice."
Erik laughed softly. "Oh no. Singing is much more than that. Your voice is an instrument, and every instrument needs the right technique to sound perfect."
She looked at him skeptically. "And I'm supposed to do that with every breath?"
"No. Just when I sing at first. But over time, it will become a habit."
Catherine wasn't sure she believed that. But she wanted to learn—and Erik was the only one who could teach her. So she went along with it.
"Good," Erik said finally. "One more time. Sing—but this time with proper breathing."
Catherine took a deep breath, raised her hand, and began singing again.
And this time it sounded different. Fuller. Clearer. Stronger.
Erik nodded in satisfaction. "That's a start."

Chapter Text

The following weeks became a mixture of hard work, new insights, and a growing sense of self-confidence for Catherine.
Every evening after her shift at the opera, she made her way to the half-finished townhouse, where Erik was already waiting for her. The great hall, with its high ceilings and unfinished walls, became her second home. At first, she felt small and out of place as her voice echoed in the vast space, but the more she learned, the more she began to use the acoustics to her advantage.
Erik was a strict but fair teacher. He didn't let mistakes slip, tolerated no slacking, and patiently repeated every instruction until Catherine had completely internalized it. His methods were unusual—some evenings he only had her do breathing exercises until her head was spinning. Other evenings he forced her to hold notes until she thought her lungs would burst. But it worked.
After a few weeks, Catherine could hear it for herself. Her voice sounded fuller, more powerful. She learned to maintain control over her notes, to sing them not just from her throat, but from her whole body. It was a completely new feeling—as if she had discovered a hidden power within herself, just waiting to be unleashed.
And with each evening that she felt more confident in her voice, her self-confidence in everyday life also grew.
—
Veronique was the first to notice.
Catherine no longer reacted intimidated to her caustic remarks. When the diva belittled her, Catherine responded with calm self-assurance or—what annoyed Veronique even more—with a slight smile that made it clear she was no longer provoked.
"You seem very... elevated lately, Catherine," Veronique said smugly one day while applying makeup for rehearsal. "Have you found a patron?" Catherine, who was checking a cloak for one of the choir singers, simply raised an eyebrow. "I don't need a patron, Veronique. Sometimes believing in yourself is enough."
The diva snorted derisively, but Catherine saw the irritation in her eyes. It hadn't failed to have its effect.
—
During her singing lessons with Erik, her trust in him grew ever stronger.
He may have been withdrawn, may have refused to talk about his past, but one thing was undeniable: He knew exactly what he was doing. Every time she learned a new technique and felt her voice develop, her admiration for his knowledge grew.
"Again," Erik said one evening while Catherine was practicing an aria she had chosen herself.
She took a deep breath—this time instinctively, with the correct breathing technique—and sang. Her voice filled the hall, echoing off the unfinished walls, and for the first time, she felt truly in control.
As the last note faded away, there was complete silence for a moment.
Then Erik nodded. "Good."
Just that one word—but it meant more than a thousand compliments from others.
Catherine breathed heavily and wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead. She grinned. "I think I'm really starting to enjoy this."
"Then it's time you took it seriously."
"Wasn't that serious singing?"
"It was a good start," he replied. "But perfection is still a long way off."
Catherine laughed. "Then I hope you'll be patient with me, Maestro."
Erik looked at her for a long time, then shook his head almost imperceptibly. "Patience... is a virtue I'm working on."
Catherine knew that coming from him was almost like a confession. She grinned.
Erik didn't like to reveal much about himself, but in these moments, when her voice filled the hall and he made quiet, almost satisfied remarks to her, she knew he was proud of her progress. And that was all she needed.

Chapter Text

Erik stood at the edge of the great hall with his arms crossed, watching Catherine, who was in the middle of an exercise—or at least was supposed to be.
"Concentrate," he said, his voice cool and sharp.
Catherine flinched slightly and turned her attention back to him.
"I'm focused," she replied, but her voice betrayed that she wasn't.
Erik sighed and stepped closer. "No, you're not. Your mind is wandering. I can hear it in every note you sing."
Catherine grimaced. "I was just briefly considering how the melody would sound with a different intonation."
"Don't think. Feel."
She sighed and slumped her shoulders. "That's what you always say, but it's easier said than done."
Erik regarded her sharply. Catherine had a natural talent, but she was too easily distracted. Often it was the smallest things—a stray strand of her hair, a noise from outside, or sometimes simply her own thoughts.
"Music requires discipline," he said slowly. "Every nuance, every breath, every syllable must be deliberately placed. If you truly want to master your voice, you must learn to tune out everything else."
Catherine raised an eyebrow challengingly. "And how am I supposed to learn that?"
Erik looked at her for a moment, then took another step closer. "Close your eyes."
She did, albeit with a skeptical expression.
"Now listen."
He let the silence sink in for a moment, then began to hum a melody. It wasn't a specific aria, but a series of notes that built upon one another, blending harmoniously. The acoustics of the unfinished hall made the sound resonate in a way that still fascinated Catherine.
He knew when it clicked. Her shoulders relaxed, her breathing deepened.
"Sing it back," he commanded.
Catherine slowly opened her eyes, took a breath, and repeated the melody. This time without hesitation, without the small mistakes that had previously resulted from her carelessness.
Erik nodded barely perceptibly. "Better."
Catherine blinked. "I didn't even think about it..."
"That's the point."
It was frustrating working with a student who had so much potential but constantly got in her own way. But Erik couldn't deny that he noticed her progress. She learned quickly—when she focused.
And it had been a long time since he'd taught anyone.
Christine had been the last one.
He immediately dismissed the thought. Catherine wasn't Christine. And he wasn't about to make the same mistakes again.
"Again," he said crisply.
Catherine took a deep breath—and this time it was almost perfect.

Chapter Text

With each lesson, Catherine became more confident. Her voice grew stronger, her technique more refined, and with each success, her self-confidence grew. But with progress came a new realization—she began to see Erik not just as a teacher, but as a man.
He was strict, unyielding, often impatient, but beneath it all, she sensed something else. Something she couldn't quite grasp. A bitterness that ran deep. A loneliness he carefully concealed behind his distant demeanor.
And then there was his mask.
Catherine had noticed it from the beginning, but it took some time before she dared to confront him about it. At first, she thought it was simply a quirk—perhaps a fashion, perhaps protection against the dust of the construction site. But the longer she knew him, the more she realized it was more than that. When he'd stood right in front of her on stage in a good light, she'd noticed that his upper lip seemed unnaturally swollen on the right side.
Catherine knew she was crossing a line when she finally asked Erik about his mask. But with each passing day, her curiosity grew more unbearable. She couldn't help but sense that there was more behind that mask. More than what he'd shown her so far. And also more than what his cold, distant demeanor suggested.
"Erik?" she asked cautiously.
He stared at her without moving. "Yes?" His voice was indifferent, but there was a sharp look in his eyes, as if he were weighing every word.
"Why do you wear that mask?" she asked finally, unable to hide the hesitation in her voice. Her hands clasped nervously in front of her, but she couldn't back away. Something inside him attracted her, and that something she wanted to understand.
Erik remained silent, just staring at her, his eyes wide open, as if he had mentally prepared himself for an attack. Then he sighed deeply, as if he knew the moment had come. He knew he could no longer simply dodge.
"Women's unstoppable curiosity," he said with a bitter, barely audible laugh, "you're not the first, Catherine. Women always want to know what's hidden. What to see, what can't be shown. They believe there's a secret they must uncover."
Catherine felt uncomfortable with the mocking tone, but she held her ground. "What's beneath the mask?" she asked quietly.
Erik shook his head, then sighed. "It's better you don't see," he murmured. His voice had a harsh edge, as if he were warning her not to pursue it further.
"But I wonder who hurt you so much that you never take them off," Catherine said without thinking. "There must have been someone..." Her words trailed off as she felt the tension in the air.
Erik slumped his shoulders. He seemed frozen for a moment. Then he slowly opened his mouth. "It wasn't just one person," he said quietly. "There were many."
He took a step toward her and looked at her with his piercing eyes. "The world was never interested in who I really was. They only saw what I looked like. A look they feared, that they found repulsive. And so I was hated."
Erik turned away, as if trying to hide the pain smoldering in his eyes. "That's why I wear the mask. To avoid being exposed to this hatred again and again. So people don't judge me for something I can't change."
Catherine looked at him thoughtfully. She sensed that what he was saying was not only the truth, but also concealed a deep-rooted wound within him. She couldn't believe someone had to endure so much rejection and pain. "I'm sorry," she whispered, though she knew words weren't enough to ease his pain.
He didn't look at her when he answered. "It's not your fault." His voice was rough, but when he turned to her, he seemed to feel something differently. "The world is the way it is. I've accepted that I can't escape it. The mask only protects me from what I've always experienced."
"But... there's no reason to hide," Catherine said carefully, without considering her own words. "You are no less than others. Whatever you hide doesn't make you a monster."
Erik looked at her for a long moment, as if surprised by her reaction. "You didn't see that. We both know that. My scars are deep, and the world will never accept them."
"Maybe not," she answered quietly. "But you don't have to hide from me. I understand why you wear the mask. But you are more than what meets the eye."
Catherine knew she couldn't simply turn away from everything he'd said. She'd felt a connection she'd never thought possible. And in that moment, she felt closer to him than ever before—not just as teacher and student, but as two people both misunderstood by the world.
Erik continued to study her, his eyes softening as he straightened. "Thank you," he said after a pause, his voice almost imperceptible this time, as if he were opening up. "For your understanding."
But as he left the room, his words stuck with her, and Catherine knew she'd never be able to see him as the cold, distant teacher again. He was more—and the mask he wore was only a small part of what he hid inside.

Chapter Text

Catherine had thought long and hard about the words Erik had said to her that evening. It wasn't just the fact that he had truly opened her for the first time, but also what it had triggered in her own mind.
Over the past few weeks, she had had to deal with a host of self-doubts and fears. Her insecurity about her voice, the bullying from Veronique, the constant pressure to prove herself in the opera—all of this had made her someone who often hid. But now, as she understood Erik better, she realized that she, too, had worn this mask in her own way. She knew what it was like to be treated as the target of hatred and resentment. She had experienced it often enough, especially in her childhood when she felt misunderstood by others.
"I know how you feel," she said quietly as she looked at Erik during one of the next lessons. Her voice was calm, yet the words carried a weight that he immediately noticed.
He paused and looked at her with a gaze that didn't seem to fully comprehend what she had said.
"You're not alone," Catherine added, seeking eye contact. "I know what it means to hide yourself, to conceal yourself just to avoid being hurt. Sometimes you just need someone to listen—someone who understands."
Erik said nothing. He just stood there, his hand slightly tense, as if he was having trouble fully comprehending her words. She could see that he was holding back, as if he didn't want to accept this closeness, this understanding from her.
But in that moment—as she stood facing him, speaking with a candor that surprised even her—she understood that perhaps she was offering him exactly what he needed: not pity, not false sympathy, but genuine understanding.
The silence between them stretched until Erik, who until then had never found the courage to touch her in any way, suddenly took a step toward her. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he placed his hand on her shoulder. It wasn't an intrusive gesture, but rather a gentle, cautious touch, as if he were unsure whether she would accept it. Yet she felt no resistance, no fear. On the contrary—it felt right.
Catherine blinked and looked at him in surprise. But she said nothing. She felt the warmth of his hand, which, in that moment, meant more to her than any words. It wasn't just a gesture of affection, but a subtle sign that, at that moment, he saw her not just as a student, but as someone truly close to him.
"You're not like the others," he said finally, his voice a little rough. "You're the first person to see me like this. You understand."
Catherine nodded, a small smile forming on her lips. It wasn't a triumphant smile, but one of recognition—for the trust he placed in her.
"Perhaps," she said quietly, "I can understand you a little. Perhaps... we can both shed our masks."
For a moment, there was silence, the sound of her own words echoing. Erik slowly let his hand slide from her shoulder, as if he were letting go of a moment of closeness he didn't want to dread. But Catherine knew that at this point, she had achieved something—a step she would never have thought possible.
Erik, who had maintained his distance for years, who had found in every other person only a memory of hatred, couldn't deny that he had discovered something else in her. Someone who saw beyond the facade. Who saw not only his disfigured face, but also the person he truly was.
He knew that in her he had found a student who was not only talented, but also possessed the ability to read the depths of his soul. And that, strange as it was, filled him with a warmth he had never allowed himself.

Chapter Text

Erik remained standing in the room where they had practiced long after his conversation with Catherine. The sound of her voice, her words, which held a meaning for him he couldn't quite grasp—they echoed in his head, like a melody he couldn't let go of.
Normally, he was the one who disappeared behind a mask, who overshadowed his true feelings, who viewed the world with a wall of isolation and suspicion. But now, in this moment, he had felt something different. Something he had long forgotten: a delicate bond that had formed between them, invisible yet strong. Catherine had understood it in a way no one ever had before.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Her gaze, so open and understanding, had reached him in a way he wouldn't have thought possible. She had seen in him what he had always tried to hide—not just his disfigured face, but also the loneliness that had accompanied him his entire life. Her words had stung, but not with the bitter blow of rejection that always haunted him. They had calmed him, almost like a gentle melody, giving him the courage to step into the shadows and hide no more.
He felt lost in the waves of his own thoughts. Her compassion, which he had rejected for so long, had reached him, but in a way different from what he expected. She had shown no false sympathy, made no frivolous promises. She had simply offered her understanding—a gesture of closeness that overwhelmed him.
"You're not like the others," he had said, and it was the truth. Catherine wasn't like the women who had always seen him as a monster, who despised him from afar or punished him with contempt. She hadn't perceived him as a threat, but as a human being, just as vulnerable as anyone else. And that was what almost overwhelmed him.
How long had it been since someone had looked at him like that? Years? Decades? It seemed inconceivable that in Catherine he had found not only a student, but also a person who approached him with such simplicity and sincerity.
He could remember Christine—that was the moment his mask had been torn from his face. That was the only other person who had seen him like that, who had perhaps also understood the same thing in his eyes. But Christine had seen him differently, not in the same way Catherine did. Her fascination was never truly connected to the empathy he found in Catherine. She had been enchanted by the magic, by the music. Catherine, however… Catherine felt as if she had seen him—really seen him, without prejudice, without fear. She hadn't rejected him, but had drawn closer to him.
And when she had touched his hand, when she had given him that moment of comfort without words, he had been almost frightened by the feeling of closeness that spread within him. A strange, but not unpleasant feeling. He had never really touched her, not like this. It was a gesture he had avoided for so long, afraid that his touch would repel her. But when she didn't move away, when her hand didn't withdraw, he felt a surge of something that seemed almost like hope. Hope—a concept that, all these years, had seemed like a distant, unreachable star.
But deep down, he knew he had to be careful. This closeness he was allowing so suddenly was dangerous. Very dangerous. If he put too much into it, if he let his feelings in, he would only make himself vulnerable—to her, to himself. He had to hold back, had to prevent his own emotions from overwhelming him. This affection, so fresh and unfamiliar, could entangle him in a web of feelings he could no longer control.

"You understand," he had said, and in some ways, he felt he was getting closer to the truth than he had ever thought possible. Maybe Catherine really could understand. Maybe she could see the monster he had been for so long and still not shy away from him. But was he ready to allow that closeness? Was he really ready to relive the pain of disappointment if things went wrong?

He sighed, his mind tangled in a web of doubt.

He still couldn't believe there was someone like Catherine who saw beyond the façade. And yet, when he thought of her look—the look of acceptance that showed him she saw something in him he'd never truly recognized—it was hard not to think about it further.
Maybe he was on the right path. Maybe in Catherine he'd found the student who was not only musically gifted, but also the one who could help him rediscover a part of himself. But here, too, he had to remain cautious. He had to know his place.
He looked in the mirror as if searching for an answer. What if this closeness was the wrong step? What if he was just blocking it again? But deep down, he knew it was too late to withdraw. It was too late to escape. Catherine had awakened something in him he could no longer deny. And that frightened him as much as it encouraged him.
"Maybe," he murmured quietly to himself, "maybe it's time to make a change."

Chapter Text

The hours of singing lessons passed in a rhythm of practice and silent exchange. With each lesson, Catherine had become more immersed in the music, in the tones that Erik teased out of her with so much dedication and passion. It was more than just technique, more than just learning notes and melodies—it was a journey she was embarking on with him. And it wasn't just his music that gripped her, but also the imperceptible moments of closeness between them. The glances that touched their souls, the unspoken words that hovered between their lips.
Today, however, something different seemed to hang in the air.
Erik stood beside her, his eyes focused, his hands ready to correct her if her voice didn't hit the right note. But there was more to him—an inner pressure that kept building. The closeness between them was like an invisible bond that tightened with each lesson, until he could hardly bear it anymore.
Catherine sang a high note, the sound of his guidance following her like an invisible thread. But this time it was different. As she held the note, she suddenly felt a hand on her back, gently supporting her. It was a touch that almost surprised her.
She lingered on the note for a moment as a warm tingling sensation gripped her stomach. It was a feeling she had rarely experienced in her life. A comforting, gentle tingling that came from Erik's touch and proximity. It was like the same sensation she felt when she immersed herself in his music—a mixture of excitement and peace coursing through her body.
Erik noticed the moment. He felt the gentle resistance in her posture as he touched her, and he knew she registered it. He didn't dare move any further. But it was an unconscious impulse, a feeling that told him to take the step. Maybe it was the familiarity that had built during their time together, or maybe it was the constant urge to get closer to her—but this time it was stronger than any reason.
He slowly drew his hand up and placed it gently against her cheek. It was a cautious gesture, as if he wanted to capture her softness with a touch that would neither frighten nor repel her. Her breath caught for a moment as she felt the contact. Her eyes remained fixed on the notes before her as she tilted her head slightly to feel his touch, as if trying to better understand her reaction to what was rising within her.
The butterflies in her stomach intensified. It was a feeling she could no longer suppress, one that deepened with every moment Erik touched her. She knew there was something more in the air than just music. Something unsaid between them, a secret they both shared but couldn't yet fully comprehend.
"Catherine," Erik whispered softly, his voice almost like an invitation. "I..."
But she didn't interrupt him, simply let him speak, her eyes flickering up to him.
In that moment, she knew she could no longer retreat. She had lost herself long ago without realizing it. Her feelings, her longings, buried deep within, had now surfaced. It was as if the music in her chest had become the rhythm of her heart.
Erik, seeing her eyes turning to him almost questioningly, knew he couldn't wait any longer. Without further words, without further hesitation, he leaned toward her, his hand still tender on her cheek. He felt the warmth of her skin beneath his fingers, the gentle trembling she felt with his every movement. It was almost as if the moment overwhelmed him, as if the sound of her voice and the trust she placed in him prompted him to take the step he had never dared to dream of.
And then, without her being able to do anything about it, Catherine closed her eyes as his face drew closer. When Erik saw her reaction, memories of Christine flooded through him. The feeling of her lips on his... He shrank back and stiffened. How could he even think about kissing Catherine? His hands were covered in blood... Just touching her was tantamount to sacrilege... Catherine seemed to sense his hesitation. She opened her eyes and looked at him. She saw the doubt in his gaze.

Chapter Text

Erik stood a foot away, his breathing quickening, and the room around him seemed to dissolve. Never before had a woman looked at him like that—so intensely, so full of trust and tenderness. The way Catherine looked at him had ignited something in him that lay dormant deep within his soul. It was like a fire, slowly but surely consuming his composure. The look she gave him was everything he had ever wanted, and yet it was also the look he feared most.
He felt as if he were standing on a fine line between what he desired and what he feared most. Being close to Catherine was like a drug—sweet and intoxicating, but also dangerous. There was tenderness in her gaze, a warmth that enveloped him, but it also carried a devastating power. Her eyes, looking so openly and honestly into his, almost made him lose control. Her trust, her devotion, the inexplicable affection she gave him—all of it crept into his heart, where it began to shake the deepest, most hidden places.
Erik didn't want it, couldn't. Not again.
The memories of Christine stormed into his mind with unstoppable force. Christine, whom he had loved—who had slipped almost completely from his mind in their last moments of closeness. Who had left him when he had given her everything he had to offer, when he had opened himself most to her. That had destroyed him. The pain of being abandoned had been deeper than anything he had ever known. And it was precisely that pain, that terrible fear of being rejected again, that made him pause now.
He didn't want to experience it again. That disappointment. That abandonment. He couldn't allow a woman to let him so deeply into his being, only to then break him.
"Catherine," he whispered, almost like a command, trying to free himself from the magnetism of her eyes. "You mustn't look like that. Don't look into me like that."
His voice was rough, almost desperate. Erik knew he had to hold back—that he couldn't make the same mistake again. But the urge to pull her closer, to deepen the connection between them, was unbearable.
Catherine, still looking into his eyes, noticed the change in him. Something in his posture, in his gaze, had changed. First it was tenderness, then uncertainty, and now? Fear.
"Erik..." she said softly, the concern in her voice unmistakable. "I haven't done anything to you. You don't have to be afraid of me."
He heard her words reach him, but they did nothing to ease his panic. On the contrary, they intensified the feeling that was building up inside him. The thought that she might hurt him, that one day she might run away from him too, made his chest ache. This burden, this thought, crushed him.
"It's not that I'm afraid of you," he said bitterly as he took a step back. "It's more... the fear that one day you might leave just like she did. And I can't bear that."
Catherine looked at him, stunned. Her eyes widened as she tried to understand the meaning behind his words. She didn't know exactly what he meant, but she felt the shattering in his voice, the deep, hidden fear he hid so well.
"Christine," he whispered almost inaudibly as he sank into thought. "You don't understand. I loved her, Catherine. And she left me after I gave her everything. I can't fall that low again. I can't be left again."
The words he spoke were so filled with pain that Catherine could almost feel it physically. She now saw Erik not only as the mysterious and charismatic teacher, but also as a wounded man trapped deep inside. She could see the fear in his eyes that he tried to hide. Yet it was obvious. He had never truly been able to let go of it—the memory of the woman who had rejected him.
Catherine took a step toward him, her voice now filled with compassion. "You don't have to be afraid, Erik. I won't leave."
Erik felt something shift inside him. Her words reached him, but the doubt remained. The protective wall he had built around his heart was too strong, too solid. He couldn't allow himself to break through that wall again.
"You don't understand, Catherine," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "I gave my heart, and it was torn apart. I will never allow anyone to get that close to me again. Not like this."
"But you don't have to be alone, Erik," she replied gently, taking a step closer. "You don't have to carry everything alone."
He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to compose himself. But Catherine wasn't like the others. She hadn't judged him. She had understood him.
"Maybe... maybe you're right," he finally murmured as he opened his eyes again and looked at her with a mixture of gratitude and pain.
And so they stood there, in a silence filled with unspoken feelings neither of them could fully grasp. But in that silence was also a promise—a silent contract between them that said more than words ever could.

Chapter Text

The walk from Erik's house to Soho that evening was permeated by a strange silence that seemed to suffocate even the sounds of the city. It was as if the air between them had thickened—heavy and impenetrable. Catherine noticed it immediately. It wasn't like usual. No exchange of words, no smiles, or a look full of affection, as he had on other evenings. Instead, there was a tense calm that filled them both with a vague unease.
Erik walked beside her, but the distance he left in his steps felt almost tangible. As he led her through the streets, he tried to suppress the feeling of closeness that had developed between them. They had grown closer again and again, had torn down many invisible walls in the last few hours and days. But now there was a break, a gap between them that he couldn't explain. And he didn't want to know what it meant.
Catherine could almost feel the tension emanating from him. She sensed that he was withdrawing from her not only physically, but also emotionally. Something was different when he accompanied her after class today. Something she couldn't put into words, but it was there. The deep pain hidden in his eyes still hadn't completely disappeared, and she knew that inside, he was closing himself off again.
The words she'd said to him in the last few lessons might have reached him, but she wasn't sure they were enough to heal him. Erik was a man scarred by so many abysses, and it wasn't easy to get through to him. But what he'd confided in her was a step—one she couldn't let go of.
"Erik," she said finally, her voice soft and gentle. She knew she had to be careful in this moment. "I understand how you feel. And I want to help you. But you have to allow me to do it. I don't want you to be alone with this pain."
He heard her words, but he said nothing. Only a faint, almost inaudible sigh escaped him, and he let the words hang in the air. Catherine could see the bars closing in his expression. In his silence, he had grown closer to himself again, far removed from what she had confided in him. And yet she knew that at this moment he couldn't leave her.
The streets of Soho took on an almost magical atmosphere in the twilight as they arrived in front of Catherine's house. The neighborhood lights cast soft shadows, and the air was cool and fresh. Catherine paused as she stood in front of the door of her house, and the silence between them was now almost oppressive.
"Thank you," she finally said, looking into his eyes as she slowly reached out and placed her hand on his cheek. The gesture was simple, but it was all she had to say in that moment. Her touch was gentle, almost shy, and it felt as if she gave him more in that instant than words ever could.
Erik froze as her hand touched the cold surface of his face. For a moment, he was completely still, his eyes gazing deep into hers, as if trying to recognize something in her—perhaps an answer, perhaps comfort. But he found no words. Instead, he felt the sudden, painful pressure constricting his chest. The closeness he tried to avoid became an overwhelming wave in that simple touch.
"Catherine..." he began, his voice low and shaky. But he didn't know how to continue. What should he say? That he didn't want to let her go? That she made him feel human again? That he needed her more than he'd ever admitted? Words failed him.
But Catherine didn't drop her hand. She simply allowed it to happen, that for a moment she was nothing more than a touch, a comfort, an escape.
"I won't run away," she finally whispered, gently removing her hand from his cheek and looking deep into his eyes. "No matter what you fear. I won't leave, Erik."
With those words, she turned and slowly stepped into her house. Her gaze remained on him as she closed the door behind her, and for a brief moment, she felt as if she'd told him more than she could ever express in words. It was a promise hanging in the air, an unspoken confession that neither she nor Erik could ever fully put into words.
He stood there for a while longer as the door closed behind her, listening to the soft sound of her footsteps slowly fade into the silence of the night. And for a moment, as fleeting as a breath, it felt as if the space between them had become a little narrower—not by words, but by what lay unspoken between them.
Erik finally turned and slowly stepped into the darkness. But inside, it wasn't darkness he felt. It was a small, fragile light—a light he could no longer completely ignore.

Chapter Text

The news spread like wildfire through the opera house. A singing competition that would attract the best talent from across the city was about to be held. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that offered the opportunity to be discovered. It was the dream of every singer at the opera house—and this competition could be their big chance to gain the attention of influential people in the music scene.
Rumors about the jury lineup circulated, and when Catherine heard that Veronique would also be part of the jury, she felt a sinking feeling in her stomach. It was no secret that Veronique would be only too happy to put her back in her place. The fact that she was the one who could override her, willing to expose her flaws and embarrass her in front of the others, made Catherine lose motivation. She wasn't sure if she should compete against this insecurity and fear of Veronique.
As she walked through the halls of the opera house, she hesitated to even sign up. Maybe she wasn't good enough. Maybe what Erik saw in her was just a fleeting moment. Her doubts nagged at her, over and over again. But the idea that she might have a chance at first place wouldn't leave her alone. What if she could really do it? What if she stood on the opera stage and finally realized her dream of recognition and success?
That day, after the last singing lesson, Catherine sat thoughtfully at one of the tables in the dressing room, her thoughts heavy. The competition would be held soon, and registration was already open. But whenever she thought about the competition, doubts arose. What if she wasn't good enough? What if Veronique would embarrass her again?
Erik, watching her from a distance, could see the uncertainty in her face. She had withdrawn into herself again throughout the entire lesson. Her charisma was weaker than usual. Carefully, almost on impulse, he approached her and sat down at the table without saying a word. He felt he couldn't wait. He had to help her, even if she was still hesitant.
"You should sign up," he finally said, his voice more confident than he felt. "It's your chance, Catherine. You're much better than you give yourself credit for."
She looked up at him, her eyes a little uncertain. "But the competition is tough," she said hesitantly. "And Veronique will definitely turn on me. She'll crush me in the jury."
"You can't let her intimidate you," Erik replied calmly. "This isn't the time to hold back. Veronique is a diva, but that doesn't mean you're incapable of surpassing her.You have the talent, Catherine. And you have to learn to believe in it.”
Catherine shook her head. “It's hard. I don't know if I'm strong enough for this. And then there's the fear of failing again.”
“That's the first mistake,” Erik said calmly, placing his hand on the table, almost as if to reassure her. “Fear of failure holds you back. You have to try, even if you're scared. It's the only way you'll ever find out how much you can truly achieve. And you'll see, you'll rise above yourself. You have the ability, Catherine. The competition is an opportunity to show your voice to the world.”
He spoke with a conviction that almost pierced her. But Catherine, still filled with uncertainty, tilted her head and considered his words. It was hard for her to truly believe in herself, to trust that she could live up to expectations.
“But what if I lose?” she asked quietly.
"Then you've still won something," Erik replied without hesitation. "Because at least you'll have tried. And you'll have grown, no matter how it turns out."
His words, which came from deep conviction, stirred something within her. Maybe he was right. Maybe this was the moment she finally had to put aside her fears and face the challenge. If she ever wanted to succeed in opera, if she ever wanted to step onto that stage, then the competition was the opportunity to prove it.
She took a deep breath and looked at Erik. "You really think I can do it?" she asked.
"Yes," he answered without a moment's hesitation. "I know you can. You just have to believe in yourself."
Catherine nodded slowly as she absorbed the words. She was still unsure, but the confidence Erik instilled in her was strong enough to distract her from her doubts. She had no guarantee she would win. But she knew she had to at least try. If she failed, at least she would have tried with all her might. And that was a first step. A significant step.
"I'll sign up," she finally said, a small smile on his lips.
"Good," Erik said with a nod, satisfied with her decision. "You won't regret it. I'll support you, Catherine. Until the end."
With that commitment, that silent support, Catherine knew she could take the plunge. The competition wasn't just a challenge to her voice, but also to her fears and insecurities. And with Erik's belief in her, she would do whatever it took to make her dreams come true—no matter the outcome.

Chapter Text

Erik stood in his study, surrounded by sketches and notes, but his gaze was elsewhere today—on Catherine. She had signed up for the singing competition, and even though his original plan had been different, he had to admit that now was a perfect opportunity. A chance to lead her to undeniable success, one that would put her in the spotlight not only as a singer, but also as a woman.

He took a deep breath and walked to the window. The opera lay calmly before him, but inside, his mind was seething. He knew he had to prepare her properly. He had lived with music and the people behind the scenes long enough to know how important it was to train not only her voice, but also her self-confidence and how to handle the pressure that came with such a challenge. The competition wasn't just a test of her voice—it was a test of her courage. "She'll do it," Erik murmured quietly, almost like a promise he made to himself.
But the thought of what it would mean for him made his heart beat faster.
If she won—and he was firmly convinced she could—then everything would change. He had vowed to confess his feelings to her if she won the competition. Seeing her as a singer wasn't just a dream, but also a deeper desire he'd harbored for so long: to win her over.

But to get there, he'd have to work harder with her. It wouldn't be easy.
Catherine was talented, but she had her insecurities, and in this world, just having talent wasn't enough. She had to learn to overcome her fears and trust herself. And he was the only one who could guide her on that path.

His gaze wandered to the sheet music on his desk. This was the music he wanted to use to prepare her. The pieces he had carefully chosen were anything but easy. There was no room for error. Catherine had to learn to fight with every note, to express her emotions with every phrase. It wasn't just about mastering the correct technique, but also about completely losing herself in the music.

He knew that in the coming weeks, he would work harder with her than ever before. He would test her limits, push her until she put aside her fears and doubts. But this was the path to success. Catherine was stronger than she gave herself credit for—and he would help her unleash that strength.

He shuddered briefly as his thoughts returned once again to the question that tormented him:

What if she won? What if she took first place and sought his company, sought his help? What if she looked at him with the eyes of a victor? What would happen then? He knew his feelings for her were no longer just a fleeting thought. They were real. And it tormented him. No one had ever seen him the way Catherine did. Her innocent closeness, her tenderness, the way she treated him in every lesson—he had never experienced that. And yet, he was determined to wait for the right moment.
"I won't screw this up," he muttered to himself. "First the competition. Then, after she wins, I'll confess everything to her."

His hand clenched into a fist as he turned back to the music. The preparation would not only work on her abilities, but also on her inner self.

She had to learn to gain control over her fears and doubts. And he wouldn't stop her. On the contrary—he would push her forward.

His fingers glided over the notes as if he were experiencing the music not just with his ears, but with every fiber of his being. The competition wasn't just her chance—it was also his. Because he could no longer admire her from afar. If she won, if she overcame her greatest fear, then he would tell her the truth.
"If she wins..." Erik whispered softly, "then she'll know everything. Then she'll understand that I feel more for her than words can ever express."

But time was running out, and he had a decision to make. He would prepare her for this path. He would teach her everything she needed. And when the moment came, he would confess his feelings to her. But only when she truly had what she deserved—victory. Only then would he finally dare to let her into his life.

Chapter Text

The day of the singing competition had arrived. The atmosphere at the Royal Opera House was electric. Dancers, singers, and stagehands scurried through the aisles, each in anticipation of what was about to happen. The room was filled with excitement and nervousness—not only among the contestants, but also among the judges. Catherine, in particular, felt her tension rising immeasurably. Her thoughts kept circling around the upcoming performances and, above all, the presence of Veronique on the panel.
Veronique, the celebrated operatic diva, was known for her sharp remarks and cynical humor. No other member of the panel would dare contradict her—and Catherine knew this only too well. It was a fact she had to accept, even if thoughts of Veronique paralyzed her.
The competition began, and with each performance from the other contestants, the tension in Catherine's stomach grew. Her voice was strong, but her insecurity crept in as she watched Veronique stare at her notes each time, a sneer and a slightly raised eyebrow.
Finally, it was Catherine's turn. Her heart pounded in her chest as she positioned herself behind the curtain. She had worked hard, much more than she ever thought possible, and Erik, too, had guided her to a strength she hadn't believed she possessed. But as she struck the first notes, she felt it immediately. Veronique, sitting above the jury, fixed her with a piercing gaze. The feeling of being the center of attention grew ever more intense. Her nervousness grew.
The first note left her lips—and immediately Veronique dropped a scathing comment. "Oh, how sweet, she's really trying," she sneered as the first few lines of the aria sounded. The words hit Catherine like a punch to the gut. But she forced herself to keep singing, to channel her emotions through the melody.
"Not bad, but you've lost sight of the feeling," Veronique continued, twisting her mouth. "This won't work, my child. You're still a long way from true greatness."
The diva's words echoed in Catherine's ears, and for a moment she was almost ready to stop the performance, turn around, and leave the stage. But then she remembered everything she'd learned from Erik—the strength he'd ignited within her. Catherine closed her eyes and let herself be swept away by the music, pushing Veronique's sarcastic remarks aside as if they were nothing more than background noise. She paused, took a deep breath, and let her voice flow even more freely.
The opera director, who was observing the proceedings, sighed softly and tried to put Veronique in her place. "Please, Veronique, she hasn't even been given the chance to prove herself. You should at least give her a fair opportunity." But his words had little effect on the diva. She was too focused on demonstrating her power.
The other judge, a highly respected singer named Sir Charles Santley, looked at Catherine with a critical eye. But even he couldn't completely break away from Veronique's behavior, no matter how hard he tried to rein her in. It was a constant power struggle between the two that couldn't even be quelled in the room.
Despite all the negative comments, Catherine stood her ground. Her voice, plagued by doubt for so long, now came out with a determination that surprised even she. Every note was firmer, every melody a little stronger. Her eyes weren't looking at Veronique, but at the dark wall opposite, as if she were singing only for herself—no one else.
Veronique watched with growing irritation. Her eyes narrowed as she continued to mutter mocking remarks, but it was clear that Catherine wasn't fazed. She gave it her all. Her voice sounded clearer with each note, her performance more confident.
Finally, her performance ended, and Catherine held her breath as she looked at the jury. Veronique clapped only slowly, her face a mask of skepticism. But the opera director and the other juror nodded in satisfaction.
"You did well," the director said with an unconvinced smile, as if surprised against his own expectations. "It wasn't an outstanding performance, but you brought out the best in yourself."
"That was almost... bearable," Veronique concluded, her voice laced with sneering cynicism. "But we know what true greatness is."
Catherine knew that in those moments, all she wanted was recognition, and yet she felt a strange satisfaction that she hadn't let herself be defeated. She wasn't there yet, but she hadn't let herself be bent. Despite the harsh comments—despite everything—she had dared to take the step forward.
Veronique, on the other hand, was visibly annoyed that Catherine hadn't accepted her own game. Her eyes sparkled as she left the competition—a defeat for the diva she refused to admit. But Catherine knew now that she could continue—with or without Veronique's approval.
As Catherine left the stage, she felt relief flooding through her body. She had prevailed, overcome her fears, and that, for her, was true victory. And maybe, just maybe, the competition would not only capture Veronique's attention, but also further build her own confidence in music and herself.

Chapter Text

Erik sat hidden in the darkness of the auditorium, behind a tall pillar that gave him enough cover to observe the competition without being seen. His eyes were fixed on Catherine, who had just finished her performance. The room was filled with eager stares and murmuring conversations, but for Erik, only one thing mattered: Catherine. Her voice, stronger than ever, had surprised even him. She had proven herself in this round, even if Veronique and her constant, biting remarks left a bitter aftertaste.
Erik could hear the cynicism in Veronique's voice as she criticized Catherine during her performance. It annoyed him how carelessly the diva used her words, as if she could destroy an entire roster of young talents with a single, condescending comment. Her sneering remarks stung Catherine every time, but she didn't let it get her down. She stood her ground, unfazed by the bitterness of the words. Erik was amazed and a little proud of her. She had far more courage than he would have ever expected of anyone.
"Well done, Catherine," he murmured to himself as he continued to watch her. The jury was obviously no longer paying much attention to Véronique's remarks. The other two members, the opera director and Sir Charles Santley, also seemed to be giving Catherine recognition. That was all Erik needed—a small sign of success for the young woman he had come to admire greatly.
"She did it," he thought as the jury finally announced their decision. Catherine had made it to the next round. The director had dismissed her with an appreciative nod, and Erik could see the moment of relief on her face as she left the stage. A small smile formed on his lips. It was the first step. A big step for her. He knew Catherine would go far—if she didn't give up.
But even now, the journey was far from over. In the next round, she had to sing a song chosen by the judges. It was a challenge, a test of her abilities, but Erik had faith in her. This song would challenge her not only musically, but also emotionally. He knew Catherine had just the depth and stamina to meet this challenge.
He straightened slightly and watched as Catherine left the room. It was time to prepare for the next lesson. Erik knew the upcoming phase of the competition would be even more difficult, but he was determined to support her with all his experience and knowledge. Whatever happened, he would stand by her. She had the potential to conquer the opera world. And he wouldn't let anyone, least of all Veronique, stand in her way.
"You have it in you, Catherine," Erik murmured as he watched the competition from afar. "And I will make sure you take the right path."
With these thoughts, Erik left his observation post. There was still much to do. But today was a good day.