[The Phantom of the Opera] I love you, I’m just pretending

He sat to the side, coldly observing the woman in front of him.

She was very thin, frail to the point of being delicate—a classic ballerina’s physique. Her golden hair was parted with one side resting on her shoulder. She had her head lowered, organizing sheet music on the piano. He recognized immediately that it was his sheet music. Without taking the time to wonder why he was here or who this woman was, he said coldly, “Don’t touch that.”

The woman turned around and asked gently, “Don’t touch what?”

Her skin was incredibly pale, nearly translucent, almost to the point where he could see the faint blue veins beneath. Her eyes were bright, the color of the sky and the sea, and her lips had a touch of gloss, making them appear soft and beautiful. He had seen many beautiful women, but she was the first one to see his true face in the sunlight without screaming.

Why?

Did she not find his appearance repulsive?

He remained silent, and the woman didn’t press him for an answer.

Instead, she quietly waited for his response, which both offended and unsettled him. She continued to stare at his face, her gaze pure and unwavering. He didn’t believe her eyes were truly that innocent. Either she was hiding her motives, trying to get something from him, or she had a heart as venomous as a snake, drawing close to him, seducing him, hoping to make a fool of him and then laugh at him.

He knew women too well, especially beautiful ones—they were demons cloaked in delicate skin. He remembered serving such a “demon” at the royal palace in Mazandaran. Back then, he used every means to make her laugh, but when he begged for a single kiss on her cheek—even just once—she pursed her lips and sneered in disgust: “Monster, stay away from me—oh, don’t make that disgusting face at me! Just because you know a few tricks doesn’t mean you can hope to kiss my cheek. I’d rather let a pig snout touch my face than let you kiss me. Do you understand? I mean, you’re ugly, hideously repulsive!”

Her words had shattered his heart, yet he stayed by her side like a dog until the king, fearing his secrets in the Mazandaran palace would be exposed—he had transformed that palace into a terrifying labyrinth full of traps—ordered the execution of him and all the workers involved in its construction. Only then did he leave that beautiful demon behind.

He drifted for a long time, like a ghost, traveling through Turkey, then India, before finally settling in Paris, where he was invited by Garnier to work on the foundation of the Paris Opera House. He was tired of his wandering life, hoping to settle down like an ordinary man. The depths of the opera house became his sanctuary. But just as he had finished building his underground hideaway and was about to move in, he opened his eyes to find himself in this villa, with a fragile, beautiful woman in front of him.

He stared coldly at her, unsure of her intentions. Was she not afraid he might kill her?

He was not a good man. Killing was as natural to him as drinking water.

Then, she smiled. “Alright, I won’t touch your things. Please don’t be angry with me, alright?” She approached him, sat down beside him, and without hesitation, leaned over and kissed his cheek. He noticed a small mole on her slender neck, tiny yet prominent. When she smiled, it trembled along with her pale, bare neck—but that wasn’t the point. The point was, she kissed him!

The kiss burned him. This was the first time a woman—a beautiful woman—had kissed him. Everyone viewed him as a hideous monster, even his own mother—his birth mother—would scream in terror and wave her hands to drive him away as if he were a demon. Yet this woman had kissed his cheek so gently.

Was this a dream?

It must be.

Gradually, he calmed down. This had to be a dream; only in a dream could such an absurd scene occur.

It was indeed a dream. He hadn’t introduced himself, yet the woman called him by his name. “Are you still angry with me? I won’t touch your sheet music. Why don’t you come downstairs and have dinner with me? How about that deal?”

After a long pause, he muttered, “Not much of a deal.”

The woman frowned. “Then what would you like?”

“Tell me your name,” he said, looking at her. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

…

Half an hour later, he understood everything. He was still Erik—the Erik without a surname, the Erik so hideous it made people sick. This body was Erik’s, but it was an Erik several years into the future, married.

**At first,** he thought his appearance had changed, like in a tacky fairytale where he had traded his precious talent, built up over years, to a witch who granted him a handsome face and a gentle, beautiful wife. But when he finally mustered the courage to look in the mirror, it was still the same horribly disfigured face staring back. Then why? Why did someone like him still deserve to have a wife?

He couldn’t believe that fate had arranged such a future for him—a man so hideous and unworthy, yet blessed with such a sweet, gentle wife.

She would smile sweetly at him, cook delicious meals with her own hands, place them before him, and coax him softly to eat. Her voice was a bit hoarse, a consequence of what this body had done—the ugly, lowly, self-loathing Erik had poisoned her voice to prevent her from rejecting him. What a despicable man. And yet, she had forgiven him kindly and loved him all the same. She was practically an angel.

Her voice wasn’t the best, but she dreamed of being a soprano. To please her, he composed many songs that perfectly suited her vocal range. As he silently flipped through those sheets of music, he felt the passionate love between them.

“This is true love,” he thought. “Even though I have never experienced it before.”

Then he remembered his time in Persia, with that beautiful demon—the Persian princess. He hadn’t loved her, not even liked her, but he enjoyed the feeling of making her happy. Every time she laughed at his tricks, he felt like a real man.

To make the princess smile more, he worked tirelessly to invent cruel, ingenious methods of killing; it was then he learned to strangle with a rope. He locked himself in the arena, fighting against Persian warriors or condemned criminals—fighting with skill rather than killing immediately, allowing himself to appear vulnerable before mercilessly finishing them off. Only in this way would the princess smile with satisfaction and call him her favorite dog.

For a time, he thought he loved the princess—why else would he go to such lengths to make her happy? But now, looking at this collection of sheet music, he understood that real love was something different. He didn’t have to put himself in danger or grovel at her feet like a dog; he only needed to do what he was good at, and he’d receive a precious kiss from his beloved.

“I never thought you’d forget me…” The woman—Meg—murmured, a bit resentfully. “I thought you’d never forget me.”

Hearing this, he felt at a loss.

He knew how to amuse women, had many tricks up his sleeve, but those women saw him as nothing more than a loyal, amusing dog. To please the master, a dog only needed to perform silly tricks or hunt down prey savagely. But he had no experience in comforting a lover.

Meg’s gentle complaint made him freeze, unsure of what to do—offer her a captured criminal as a toy?

He closed his eyes and admitted this thought honestly. But she only laughed, like a wife gently teasing a foolish husband, leaning against him as she chuckled, “Silly, trying to amuse me again.” But he wasn’t trying to amuse her; he genuinely considered capturing someone for her entertainment.

He wasn’t foolish enough to admit that out loud. By now, he realized this body—or rather, the future him—had hidden his bloody past from Meg, never telling this poor woman that he was a sinner with blood-stained hands, that he once killed for fun, looping a noose around criminals’ necks and dragging them around the arena.

He was vile, shameless, cold, and violent. If Meg learned the truth, would she leave him and this body without looking back?

While he was lost in this grim thought, Meg suddenly lay down on his lap.

Perhaps this body had touched her many times before, but for him, it was the first time he had touched her—and, indeed, the first time he had touched a woman. His mind went blank, heart racing, pulse pounding beyond its limits, and his entire body radiating with a scorching heat—so, this is what a woman feels like?

She was so light, soft like a cloud, as she lay on his lap; he could barely feel her weight. Her skin was so thin, so delicate, that it seemed if he bit down gently, he might draw out blood as rich as rubies. After lunch, he had seen her wipe the lipstick from her lips with a handkerchief, revealing their natural, untainted pink—a pure, unspoiled shade he found himself liking. But who was he to say he liked anything?

They had only been together for half a day, less than six hours, yet he was already drawn to her like a neglected dog, yearning to please. Pathetic. Taking a deep breath, he tried to find flaws in her features, hoping to lose interest.

Soon, he noticed her lips were a bit chapped. She must have forgotten to drink water. Should he go downstairs and bring her a glass?

He stared at her dry lips for a while, but then realized that, more than giving her water, he wanted to lean down and kiss them. The power this woman held over him frightened him. To avoid succumbing to such unsettling thoughts, he averted his gaze. Then he noticed a small raised mole in front of her ear, and a few light freckles dotted her cheeks. These small imperfections excited him—she wasn’t an utterly flawless beauty.

But he still moved away, putting some distance between them. He didn’t want her to think he was some overly eager man.

Meg looked at him, confused.

At that moment, he realized his hand still held the lingering scent of her—an unmistakable feminine fragrance. He clenched his fist tightly, holding back the urge to foolishly raise his hand and inhale her scent.

“Until I remember everything,” he said, “I think it’s best you don’t get too close to me.”

“Why?” she asked, innocently.

Clenching his fists, he hinted coldly, “I’ve never been close to a woman before.” Meaning, his self-control was weak. If she got any closer, he might lose all restraint and tear her apart like a beast tasting blood for the first time.

But she was unphased by his warning, even shamelessly responding, “But we’ve already shared a bed many times. It’s so cold lately—you’re not thinking of making me sleep alone, are you?”

As she finished speaking, she smiled and moved toward him, as if she was about to embrace or kiss him.

He stepped back and finally made a quick escape!