Phantom: A Dark Retelling (Tattered Curtain Series)

Sol

Scarlett is finally safe in my arms, but I still can’t relax. Instead, I desperately strain to hear every breath and count the beats in between like a metronome. The rhythm is slow, but its steadiness reassures me. Every fermata in between breaths seems way too long and I have to resist the urge to shake her awake to make sure she’s alive.

I should’ve let Jaime take her to the hospital. No… I should have said fuck it and gone to the hospital with her, mask and all. But I’m banking on the hope she’s been diligent with her medicine like I know her to be.

The multitude of questions I have flooding my mind are enough to drive me mad. I make it my business to know everything there is to know about Scarlett Day. All I want to know right now is why?

Seeing my muse sobbing on the floor was like looking a decade into the past, to when Laurent murdered my father right in front of me and my brilliant mother lost her mind. Those nightmares collided into the present and I couldn’t hold back anymore.

Without a second thought, I’d pushed open the hidden mirror door in Scarlett’s room and rushed to hold her against my chest to calm her. I sang the only lullaby I could think of to keep her breathing normally. When she finally sank into my embrace and sang the English version, my heart tripled in time.

Thank goodness Jaime was there and found her medicine bottle. I’d thought it was solely a severe panic attack at the time, but I’m hoping our family psychiatrist can shed light on the effects of the medication Scarlett took. If I have to, I’ll take her to the hospital, but I’ll do everything in my power to keep her away from the psych ward. I wasn’t able to get to her in time during her first full-blown manic episode, but I won’t let her down again.

A soft knock signals the doctor’s arrival, interrupting my guilty conscience.

I’m loath to leave her, but I have to brief Dr. Portia on Scarlett’s condition, so I peel myself away. When her hand tries to catch mine, a fluttering in my chest makes my heart swell to the point of pain. As gently as I can, I roll her to her side and slide off of the mattress, closing the black curtains of the four-post bed behind me.

Padding lightly across the thick carpet, I travel down the hallway and answer the door. Sabine peers back at me behind her fire mask with a plain plastic bag in her fist.

“Jaime gave me these,” she whispers and hands the bag to me. “Apparently she got these prescriptions filled at the pharmacy today.”

I nod, already knowing that. I’d been planning to get them myself after visiting her dorm, but the pharmacy said she’d taken care of it.

“How many were missing?” I ask.

“All but seven pills are accounted for in one bottle, and there’s one missing from every other bottle.”

Relief floods my veins. Worst-case scenarios have been flying through my mind ever since Jaime said he had to count them. Seven is a lot, but it seems manageable.

Ever the silent shadow, Sabine sidesteps into the darkness, allowing Dr. Portia’s short frame to pass by. My brother follows behind her with her large medical bag hanging from his shoulder.

“Come in, but stay quiet,” I order in a hushed tone as my guests walk past me.

By the time I turn back to Sabine, my second-in-command has disappeared into the darkness, no doubt resecuring the tunnels. Normally, my security cameras and shadows operating outside the opera house are more than enough to prevent unwanted visitors, but I’d texted her right before bringing Scarlett to my home to ensure I had yet another safety measure in place.

Up until my meeting with Rand, I had no reason to think Scarlett wasn’t safe inside the Bordeaux Conservatory. Unfortunately, if anyone realizes just how much my obsession with Scarlett Day consumes me, my enemies would tear her apart to get to me.

The dim lamps inside my foyer barely illuminate the concern clouding Dr. Portia’s face. Ben’s frustration rolls off of him in waves. Even without good lighting, I can tell he’s pissed, but I’ll have to deal with him after I know Scarlett will be okay.

“Sol, where’re the goddamn lights? Not everyone has cave vision—” I flick the switch next to the door, setting the overhead lights ablaze. Ben winces as they flare throughout, revealing the small entryway and hallway leading to my kitchen, den, office, spare bathroom, and bedroom. “Shit, that’s bright after those dark tunnels. But, thanks—”

I lift my hand to silence him, making sure I can still hear Scarlett’s heavy, labored breaths. Each pause causes anxiety to spike my heart rate, but the fact that she’s breathing at all settles me a little bit.

I lower my hand, unveiling Ben’s frown. “Sol, what is going on? Why did I have to leave my family late at night?”

Ignoring him, I turn to the psychiatrist our family has had on standby for the past decade.

“There’s a woman in my bedroom—”

“Well that’s a first,” Ben huffs.

Dr. Portia’s eyes widen as she waits for me to continue. They both know how protective I am of my space and Ben at least knows that I’ve never entertained a woman in my quarters.

I push past their shock and extract a pill bottle from the bag Sabine and Jaime used to collect Scarlett’s medication.

“She took these…”

Dr. Portia dons her glasses before accepting the bottle. The wrinkles around her inquisitive dark-brown eyes crinkle further as she examines the label. “Epilepsy or bipolar disorder?”

“Bipolar type one.” I rattle off the medical reports I memorized after she was released from the hospital nearly a year ago. “History of psychosis and auditory hallucinations during severe manic episodes. She also experiences irritability, reckless tendencies, and alternating periods of depression. Episodes are made worse or triggered by lack of sleep, missed medications, and extreme stress.”

“Jesus, Sol, you sound like a goddamn medical infomercial,” Ben scolds but I just shrug. “I had no idea you were in this deep.”

Scarlett and her mental health have been my top priority ever since her father was murdered. I’d only been watching over her for a month prior to her hospitalization last year, but I realized then that my fascination with her ran deeper than mere infatuation. I thought it’d peaked at obsession, but the tangible grip she has on my chest is indescribable, completely different than any fixation I’ve had before.

“If she takes this, what seems to be the problem? Is she in the middle of an episode?” Dr. Portia asks.

“That’s the thing, I don’t think so. As far as I know, she’s been in remission for months, but tonight she took well over her prescribed dose.”

“Fuck.” Ben swipes his hand on his face, a habit I broke a long time ago thanks to my mask. Right now, though, my hands itch to do something—anything—to get the restless energy out.

“Do you know why?” Dr. Portia turns the bottle over. “And how many?”

“She claims she just wanted the panic to stop? She was coming down from a panic attack when she explained herself. I’m not sure how many she took. But her bottle is new and there are seven missing. I forced her to vomit them up because I wasn’t sure how toxic they could be at that level.”

“Hm… the issue date is from today. Has she been taking her medication as prescribed otherwise?”

I open my mouth to say yes, that I’ve made sure of it, but what about just last night? I’d arrived to her room late after getting held up at Masque so I missed most of her nightly routine, but she’d taken an older medication that makes her exhausted.

“I… I don’t know,” I finally admit, hating that I don’t have all the answers. “She mentioned last night that she lost her medication.”

Ben scowls at me the entire time I explain to the psychiatrist what it is I do know about Scarlett’s disorder. Dr. Portia, to her credit, keeps whatever judgments she likely has hidden behind her mask of practiced concern.

“I see…” she replies once I finish showing her Scarlett’s other bipolar prescriptions, vitamins, and allergy meds.

I’ve got to hand it to Sabine and Jaime, they were thorough. My poor little muse’s proverbial medicine cabinet is like a goddamn drugstore.

“That’s so strange. She sounds attentive to her health, how could she just lose them?” Dr. Portia asks under her breath, more to herself than to me, which is good since—once again—I’m out of answers.

She hands me back the bag full of medicine after studying each one and looks up to address me from her short stature.

“I will examine her, but if she is as dutiful to her medicine regimen as you are…” Those judgments she hides so well finally leak through. Her sentence drifts off, thick with reprimand as she peers over her glasses at me.

I refuse to feel ashamed, though. Without me, Scarlett could very well be dead thanks to whatever her father was mixed up in with the Chatelains. Not to mention what happened tonight.

Then again, without me, she might never have overdosed in the first place.

The look of horror she had on her face when she saw the intact music sheets crushed my chest. She’d always looked at them with a coy happiness, her excitement unbridled and addicting to see. I don’t know what sparked the terrified look this time, but it cut me to the core.

Dr. Portia huffs at my lack of response before patting her sleek, gray bun, and resuming her professional demeanor. “If she is diligent, then our best-case scenario is that she only took those missing pills. Which means she’ll be fine. Expect grogginess and a horrible migraine in the morning. Perhaps nausea, but all in all, nothing more than a hard night on Bourbon Street.”

My heart lightens and the breath I’ve been holding escapes me like a balloon until my brother speaks. “And the worst-case scenario?”

Dr. Portia grimaces. “Worst-case scenario? She needs to go to the hospital as soon as possible and get her stomach pumped.”

Ben curses but I shake my head. “I made her vomit almost immediately after she took them. I would’ve done it even sooner but I wanted to get her away from prying eyes. That had to have helped, right?”

Dr. Portia nods. “Absolutely. With that in mind…” She blows out another breath and quirks her thin lips to the side as she thinks. “I’m guessing since I’m here, the hospital is a last resort? As per usual?”

“Yes,” I answer without hesitation.

“Sol, you can’t be responsible for her if things go south—” Ben chides, but I hiss back at him.

“You’ve seen what they do to patients. It’s a prison in there.” I don’t need to tell him Scarlett begged me not to. He understands well enough how traumatizing bad mental healthcare and psych wards can be.

Dr. Portia clears her throat. “In defense of the hospital, it really is much better than when your mother—”

“Oh, so do you want to stay there, then?” I challenge. Her lips flatten into a line. “Didn’t think so.”

Ben still shakes his head with disapproval, but Dr. Portia continues. “Fine. Is the guest room available in the family wing upstairs?”

“Yes, it is,” Ben provides this time.

“Very well. I’ll stay there tonight. After I check her vitals and examine her—”

“She’s asleep,” I argue.

Dr. Portia frowns at me like she used to do when I was a teenager. I frown back.

“I won’t do more than a bedside check unless I feel it’s absolutely necessary. And if I do believe that a more thorough examination is in order, you can’t stop me, Mr. Bordeaux.”

I scowl but don’t argue further. She’s doing me a favor as it is and I need her on my side.

“If you hurt her—”

“I won’t,” Dr. Portia snaps back.

Very few people can talk to me that way, but with her, I let it slide. The older woman has worked with our family for over a decade and has seen us through it all. If any outsider can scold me, it’s her.

The tense muscles in my shoulders relax as she continues our standoff, and I finally relent. I grab her heavy bag from my brother and lead the way to my still-dark bedroom without turning on the overhead light. When I get to the bedside table, I click on the dim lamp so that when I open the four-poster bed’s curtains, Scarlett won’t be accosted by harsh lighting. Once I’ve finished drawing back the black fabric, my chest tightens at the sight of my sleeping little muse.

She’ll be okay, I tell myself, hoping I’m right. I set the medical bag next to the bed and hover beside Dr. Portia. She pauses before beginning her examination.

“A little space, Mr. Bordeaux?”

My face twists, but I honor her request, backing away to join my brother. Dr. Portia pats Scarlett’s shoulder and she wakes with a start, but the doctor’s calming presence settles her. When her worried eyes search for me, a smile that’s more confident than I am lifts my lips.

“It’s okay. Dr. Portia works with my family. She’s here to check on you.”

Scarlett nods slowly and the bed rustles as she sits up to address the doctor. Her sweet voice floats to me and I cling to its softness while Ben wastes no time barraging me with his angry whispers.

“What the fuck are you doing, Sol?” Ben’s usual frustration has an edge of anger that I rarely ever hear. “First you drop the chandelier on Monty—”

“Oh, did he end up quitting?” I ask, making Ben’s brow furrow.

“Goddamnit, yes. But that’s beside the point. He thought the Phantom was out to kill him.”

I wave away his concern. “You know as well as I do that our great-grandfather rigged the chandelier’s pulley system to prevent it from crashing.”

“Yes, we know that. But Monty didn’t. Now I have to find another director last minute and hope the last one doesn’t sue us for emotional distress.”

“We’ve got enough dirt on him to persuade him out of court.” I shrug. “And just promote your wife, obviously.”

“Maggie?” He pauses his tirade. “You don’t think the board would cry nepotism?”

“Not if they’ve seen her in action,” I scoff. “If they haven’t, they’re not paying enough attention to care one way or another. She’s more than qualified. Promote her.”

“That’s not a bad idea. Of course, she might say no herself because she never wants to feel like she’s being favored…” I can practically hear my brother’s gears turning inside his mind, right up until the moment he realizes that I’ve derailed the conversation. “Back to my other point. What about Scarlett? Tell me what’s going on here. Why do you have Rand Chatelain’s childhood sweetheart in your bed?”

“They weren’t childhood sweethearts,” I insist, barely containing the growl threatening in my chest over the way Ben describes my muse. “She needed my help. What was I supposed to do?”

“Oh… I don’t know, maybe don’t stalk her in the first place? Hell, maybe your notes were what drove her insane—”

“Enough,” I command through gritted teeth, preventing him from saying aloud what I’ve been worried about from the moment I saw her tears fall on the new music sheets.

The only thing keeping me together is the knowledge that I’ve been sending her letters for almost a year and this is the first time she’s suffered like this. I’d even say the letters helped her, at least in the beginning.

After her father died, she was a wreck. I watched over her during her depressive and manic episodes at a loss for what to do until she was committed into the hospital and finally diagnosed. When she came back, I realized one day that she could hear me as I practiced piano down here. Her angelic voice drifted back to me and before long, I was singing along.

That duet sparked an idea. Watching from behind her mirror and listening through the ducts wasn’t enough. I had to get closer to her, learn everything about her.

Letters have always been my method of communication with those outside my family, but this time, I hadn’t wanted to be the Phantom of the French Quarter. I sent them unsigned, desperately hoping she’d be amenable to the idea of a secret admirer. When she interacted back with me and I heard her sing to herself about her demon of music, the name stuck.

“She loves my notes,” I insist. “Something else happened. Something started all of this anxiety she’s been struggling with. I just have to figure out what.”

“You don’t have to do anything but leave that girl alone.”

In direct opposition to his order, I edge closer to the bed, trying to see what Dr. Portia is doing as she digs through her bag. Scarlett’s silver eyes flash toward me and she gives me a curious half smile. As if drawn to her, my foot takes another step, only stopping when my brother roughly grabs my shoulder.

“Focus, Sol. Do you plan to keep her here under the guise of protection? What about Rand? He’s all but declared his intentions in making her his.”

“She’s mine,” I growl.

“No. She. Is. Not. She’s a person, Sol. Not a trinket you can polish and set on the shelf. Neither of you seems to understand that. You have to let her go. Leave her alone.”

My mouth works in a fury over his demand and accusations but the fact that Scarlett has lain down again under Dr. Portia’s calm ministrations eases my nerves.

“I can’t keep her, I know that,” I finally admit. “But I will keep her safe. Beyond that, I’ll let her decide.”

Ben looks as if he wants to argue more, but he must realize the ground I’ve afforded him. “Fine. If this gets out of hand any further, though, or if Rand calls for war over her, I will be the first to stop you. I have to protect Maggie, my daughter, and our people above all else. She’s not one of ours.”

“Not yet,” I repeat my answer from the first time we had this disagreement.

Dr. Portia closes the curtains, symbolically silencing our conversation before she turns toward us. “Her vitals are good. She’s tired and complained of a headache, but that’s normal. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s already back to sleep. I’ve left some over-the-counter pain pills for when she wakes back up. Keep watch over her, although, it seems that whatever she took was purged from her system quickly enough to not take root. I’ve also hooked her up to an IV drip. That should lessen the harsher side effects tomorrow, if there are any. Once you get through the bag, there’s no need for another. If you come across any problems just give me a call. I’ll be right upstairs.”

Relief sags my shoulders and I swallow to wet my suddenly dry throat before speaking. “Thank you. Thank you for helping her.”

Ben’s eyebrows rise, but Dr. Portia just nods. “Of course.”

My brother loops her medical bag over his shoulder and she follows behind as I lead her to the bedroom door. But before I can cross the threshold, Ben stops me from entering the hallway.

“We’ll just be a moment, doctor,” Ben tells her and juts his chin toward my foyer, indicating she go on.

I wait until she’s relatively out of earshot before questioning him. “What?”

At this point, I’m annoyed I even asked him to be here. I was worried and frantic when I ordered Jaime to contact him, but I needed my brother, not someone who would judge me and make the situation worse.

“Look, I’m sorry I was harsh.” Ben’s voice is gentler this time as my twin seemingly reads my mind again. “I just want to make sure you know what you’re getting into. What you’re getting our family into. I needed to know you understood the risks.”

“You’ve no reason to worry. I won’t put anyone in danger.”

He raises his free hand, surrendering the argument. “All right. I hope that’s true. I won’t say anything else. I trust you.”

He claps me on the shoulder and walks out. The hallway is a straight shot to the foyer, so even though it’s dark, they don’t need a guide to the door. He opens it and allows Dr. Portia to walk through first before closing it behind him without saying a further goodbye.

I lock the dead bolt and turn off all the lights, not minding the fact that I’ll have to walk through darkness to my bedroom. Through the open doorway, the lamp seems to blaze like a sunrise against the garnet carpet. I’ll leave it on in case Scarlett wakes up in the middle of the night and wonders where she is. But if she does, I’ll be there to soothe her.

Before I slide into bed, I adjust the curtains to prevent the fabric from pulling the IV from Scarlett’s skin. Once I finish, I strip off my dress shirt, blazer, and pants in favor of a long-sleeved white T-shirt and gray sweatpants.

I wish I could help Scarlett out of her blush and gold costume and into more comfortable clothes. Unfortunately, after the trauma of the night, I’m afraid waking up in a new place with the realization that a relative stranger stripped her while she was unconscious would send her careening over the edge she nearly toppled from already.

Then again, waking up in the arms of said stranger may have the same effect.

No. Sleeping beside her is nonnegotiable. I’ve wished for months that I could hold Scarlett in my arms as I drift off to sleep. There’s no way I’m giving up the opportunity now.

I peel back the curtain on the other side of the bed and slide under the covers until I’m inches away from her. Afraid I’ll rip the IV out of her arm, I don’t dare move her, so I settle for lying on my side and watching her sleep on her back.

The lamp glows through the slim cracks between the curtains, revealing her profile to me perfectly. Her fair skin has a golden hue thanks to the dim light’s warmth, and her dark lashes fan over her cheeks above the darkened bags underneath her eyes.

Has she not been sleeping well? How did I not know this? Did I miss the signs that suggest she’s on her way into a manic state, or did something else happen?

Either way, she’ll sleep like a damn baby in my care, I’ll make sure of it. I’ve learned through my own research that for people with bipolar disorder, sleep is the best medicine to stave off a manic episode.

Hopefully, we’ve caught this one in time.

I lean into her and kiss her temple over her fine baby hairs and brush them back so they don’t tickle her face.

“Dors bien, mon amour. Tomorrow is a new day.”