Date: 11 June 2017
Location: the office of Madalene Giry
Availability: closed to @philippechaney
She hadn’t paid attention to them before. They were rich and famous and running her life from lofty pedestals past the reach of Heaven itself; they were also not her clients and not her audience, and their money funded her minuscule existence at enough of a distance that their role only mattered when the Board made an unexpected visit. Rare, these days. Things ran more smoothly now.
The Chaneys, then, barely registered in her day-to-day routine.
(Unless Raoul was pushing his way into her peripherals, but he hardly factored in as a Chaney when he was mooning after darling Christine like that.)
The Chaneys were too far up the food chain in the opera for Lisette to take notice of their goings-on. Those she answered to were not under the control of the Chaney organization, so she had the freedom to stretch her legs, so to speak, in her own activities. She’d met them perhaps thrice in her life, mostly through a curtain of eyelashes as she backed her way out of the room. She’d been Giry’s assistant then, and not presentable enough to be introduced to the illustrious Chaneys.
And then she’d locked eyes with the older son and he was suddenly everywhere.
Every time she dropped by Firmin’s office to deliver Madalene’s notes or ferried documents between the opera’s heads to gather signatures, that particular Chaney was always crossing the doorway when she approached. Philippe–she knew his name; the Chaney matriarch’s spitting image. Raoul’s older brother even if she could hardly see the resemblance.
And that would have been fine if he didn’t have the uniquely frustrating ability to pull the breath right out of her lungs every time he brushed past her with dark eyes staring into her soul and time s l o w e d then sped up to double speed the instant he was gone because her heart was taking the place of oxygen and leaping up through her esophagus.
Lisette did not, frankly, enjoy this effect and sharply shoved her organs back into place before tackling her duties with brusque efficiency to make up for that strange emotional hiccup.
It was only a second, after all. Maybe that instant of feeling abruptly light-headed was because of the air conditioning being out on this side of the building this week or because she hadn’t eaten in several hours.
But maybe it was because Philippe Chaney was just her type of tall dark handsome and he looked at her with more transparent awe than any man she’d encountered who hadn’t already seen her naked. He was also her boss’s son as in the boss who owned half of her place of employment and therefore half of her and he was strictly, entirely, specifically off-limits in every sense of the term.
“How can I help, mons–oh!”
The call to cover for Madalene’s next appointment came last-minute. Lately, everything seemed to be last-minute. The composer was a fickle “genius,” André and Firmin were accustomed to prompt preferential treatment; Giry had the speed of a woman half her age running between them all to keep track. Walk-in visitors were rare, and this one–so she gathered from Madalene’s schedule–had only announced his intention of dropping by yesterday.
So Lisette scrambled–he was a legal representative, and Madalene had not left enough information for Lisette to figure out what he was here about, and she was stamping down whatever minor panic about the opera’s legal troubles she could possibly invent.
She’d entered the room with all the grace a lifelong dancer could muster but stopped short in her greeting when the stately visitor turned toward her and those eyes bored straight through her chest and left her feeling faint for a brief, passing instant. And then Lisette recovered herself, smoothed over her stammer of surprise, and attempted to pull her own eyes away from the unsettling effect Philippe Chaney’s presence was prompting to move to Madalene’s desk on the other side of the room.
(She felt the hairs on her arms raise as she moved past him and held her breath, lest this strange buzzing in her head be the result of his cologne.)
“Monsieur Chaney. I am sorry for the wait; Madalene was called into a meeting and is not able to get away just yet. How can I assist you?”
There was disdain in his footsteps as Philippe marched up the stone steps sullenly into the Théâtre de la Nuit. It was only in moments like these where Philippe resented his mother, being her carrier pigeon instead of her frontline soldier. It wasn’t even that particular notion that caused his features to be cold and unwavering as he slowly ascended, but the mere fact that he had to visit the damned theatre in the first place infuriated him.
The hatred he felt towards the theatre was one of surprisingly unjustified defense. Philippe, for the life of him, could never wrap his head around his mother’s love for the arts.
Ever since he was a boy, she always had records of famous Puccini operas in the background of every household conversation. They wailed about their sorrow and tragedies, making the hairs on the back of Philippe’s neck stand. He hated how drawn out their problems were, making more of a mess of situations by letting their emotions get the best of them instead of dealing with it head on. They would scream, they would cry, they would even go so far as kill themselves, wallowing in despair. He despised it.
Philippe had seen enough of actual people in his life let themselves be overcome with a singular, obsessive notion that would control their actions. Whether it was a lustful pursuit, paranoia over infidelity, or vengeful fixation, Philippe had seen it all. And he did not need to see it all being replayed on a stage.
Everything to him is black and white, no shades of grey. Everything is fixable, with a straight mind and resilience.
That is why he marched straight into the theatre, keeping his head down, marking a known path for himself to the destination he was ordered to go. He did not have time to see dancers preen over themselves, singers destroy his eardrums, or musicians frantically scrutinize new scores. He needed to get to Giry’s office, that was that.
Without even bothering to check with the secretary at her desk, he swiftly opened the door to Magdalene’s office. Seeing as it was vacant, Philippe let out an annoyed grumble as he made his way towards an empty chair. Fishing out his briefcase, he set it on his lap and began to fidget with the numbered lock. But then, a clambering of sounds from the door and a softly sweet voice met his ears, causing him to turn his head. He almost dropped his briefcase.
She was standing there, with a brilliantly scared look on her face, her eyes wide and her lips slightly parted. Philippe had seen her around as he made these listless visits to the theatre, but she always seemed to be in the background. Not necessarily a wallflower by any means, but just kept to herself.
He’d noticed her before. But really, how could he not? Her beauty was breathtaking, untouchable, but there was something that made him crave for that touch.
She had always been so quiet, but so had he. They had never needed to talk to one another, but Philippe wished that he had. It was just, there was never an opportunity to for him to speak. And even if there was, he would have trouble doing so in the light of her allure.
Clearing his throat, it took him a few moments to register that she had asked him a question. Doing a slight double take to his briefcase, he fumbled with his lock before opening it and pulling out a sealed folder. Why was she affecting him like this? "Er, I have this to give to Giry. I was sent to schedule a meeting time for Annabella and her to meet to discuss the matters of it. It’s a little ridiculous,” he added, “how many steps were needed to just have a face to face talk. But, that’s what I was sent to do.”
