The Friend Shop (Phantom of the Opera)

▪ Chapter 10▪

Author's Note:

Dear Readers,

Hello! Long time no write! I hope you enjoy this chapter! I would have updated sooner but I've been busy with school and whatnot so I haven't had the time. But, here you are!

sarahlet2999

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▪ Chapter 10 ▪

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Mademoiselle Day, I have returned from my business trip. When would be a good time to resume our meetings?

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Welcome back!! The same time as before still works for me if you're okay with that. How was your business trip?

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Then, we shall keep it the same. As for my trip, it was a success.

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You'll have to tell me about it when we see each other tomorrow. I gtg, work starts soon. Talk to you later!

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Bony fingers loosely wrapped the cashmere shawl around their hands and slid it into a small white box, lightly patting the material into place within its confines. With the lid firmly secured with tape, scissors cut bits of ribbon from a white spool and tied them in a pretty bow around the box's sides. Carefully affixing the label, he scribbled her name in the "to" category and his name in the "from" category.

She always wears white. White boots, white dresses, white jewelry. This shawl should be something she'll enjoy...

His thoughts trailed off as he tucked it carefully under his arm and carried it downstairs where the smells of the deviously-seasoned pot roast drifted through the rooms and made his stomach growl unexpectedly.

After depositing the gift at her place at the table, he stepped into the kitchen, nearly overwhelmed by the sweet smell of cooking beef flavored with garlic salt, onions, and a mix of foreign spices. A contented sigh escaped him while he flipped the switch to 'off', letting the meat sit and simmer in its juices to optimum flavor.

The clock chimed once, alerting him to the passing of a quarter hour.

Beauty will be here soon.

The next fifteen minutes passed painfully slow. Several times, he passed by the front door, parting the curtains to peer down the driveway and sidewalk, each time ending with his hopes plummeting when the gravel and pavement failed to bring Christine to him.

Polished dress shoes clicked against the hardwood floor in even succession while black-gloved hands fought each other, a visible demonstration of his discomfort. Golden eyes kept wandering back to the white box sitting innocently at her place, taunting him with the risks he took in giving her something.

When he had bought it, in the heart of Spain, he hadn't thought twice about it. He had seen it hanging in the bazaar in the blinding heat and knew it had to be hers. The light material would look so fine and elegant floating about her graceful form. He could picture the smile she would give him.

But now, he worried.

Is it possible I am breaking some rule?

Perhaps she doesn't like shawls.

Perhaps she doesn't want anything from me.

It was bought with blood money after all.