Chapter 79: Phantom Shadows（1）

Dorian's POV
Three days before our London audition, I discovered the letter.
It had slipped partially beneath the antique secretary desk in the library—an expensive cream envelope with Nadia's name inscribed in elegant cursive. I noticed it while searching for a misplaced sheet of music during our morning rehearsal break.
"What's this?" I asked, retrieving it with natural curiosity.
Nadia looked up from her vocal warmups, confusion crossing her features as she took the envelope. "I don't know. Where was it?"
"Under the desk. Partially hidden, as if it had fallen and been forgotten."
She turned it over in her hands. No return address, no postmark—it had been delivered by hand. The seal was unbroken, the paper expensive and substantial.
"Open it," I urged, professional curiosity transforming into something more primal as I noted her hesitation.
With careful fingers, she broke the seal and extracted a single sheet of the same heavy cream paper. I watched her expression transform as she read—confusion giving way to shock, then something more complex.
"Nadia?" Braden asked from the piano, sensing the shift in atmosphere.
She looked up, her face unnaturally pale. Without speaking, she handed the letter to him. I moved closer, reading over his shoulder as he scanned the contents.
Miss Mitchell,
Your performance as Jane in The Proposition has been observed with great interest. Your vocal technique shows remarkable potential, though requires significant refinement for classical repertoire. Nevertheless, your natural instrument is exceptional.
I have taken the liberty of submitting your name for consideration with the Royal Opera's developmental program. A position has been provisionally reserved, contingent upon your successful audition during your London visit.
This opportunity differs from your current West End pursuits. It offers not merely employment, but transformation—the chance to develop from promising talent into genuine artist under the most rigorous European tradition.
The choice, naturally, remains yours. The Phantom offers commercial success and popular acclaim. The Royal Opera offers artistic transcendence and the development of gifts currently only partially realized.
Consider carefully.
An Admirer
The letter was unsigned.
"What the hell?" I breathed, reading it a second time to ensure I hadn't misunderstood.
Braden's expression had turned guarded. "When did this arrive?"
"I have no idea," Nadia said, her voice unnaturally tight. "I've never seen it before."
"Could it have been here since before we moved in?" I suggested.
"Impossible," Braden countered. "It references The Proposition and Nadia's upcoming London audition. This is recent."
The implications sent a cold finger tracing down my spine. Someone had been in our home—our private sanctuary—without our knowledge. Someone had watched Nadia perform, made professional judgments about her abilities, and taken extraordinary steps to intervene in her career path.
"Should we be concerned?" I asked, theatrical instincts immediately constructing dramatic scenarios. "This is rather... unorthodox."
"It's creepy," Nadia stated bluntly, reaching to take the letter back from Braden. "Someone was in our house."
"Or someone we know delivered it," Braden suggested, ever practical. "Vandercant, perhaps? He has connections throughout European theater."
The suggestion was rational but felt wrong somehow. Vandercant would have simply spoken directly—his personality ran toward blunt force rather than mysterious machinations.
"The tone doesn't match Vandercant," I observed. "Too formal, too... refined."
Ryan appeared in the doorway, his expression shifting as he registered the tension in the room. "What happened?"
Nadia handed him the letter without comment. As he read, his posture changed—relaxed confidence hardening into protective alertness.
"When did this arrive?" he demanded, echoing Braden's earlier question.
"We don't know," I explained. "I just found it under the desk."
Ryan examined the envelope, his technical attention to detail engaging. "No postmark. Hand-delivered. Professional quality stationery—this isn't something from an office supply store. It's European, possibly Italian."
"How could you possibly know that?" I asked.
"The weight, the texture, the watermark," he replied absently, still examining it closely. "I dated a paper conservator from the Met once. She was very... educational."
Despite the tension, I couldn't suppress a raised eyebrow. Ryan's dating history before our arrangement contained unexpected depths.
"The question," Braden interjected, "is whether this represents a genuine opportunity or something more concerning."
"The Royal Opera's developmental program is legitimate," I confirmed. "Highly competitive, extremely prestigious. It's essentially a fast-track to international classical career at the highest level."
Ryan's expression darkened. "So someone's trying to lure Nadia away from The Phantom audition? Away from London with us?"
The observation hung in the air, crystallizing what had been implicit. This wasn't merely an alternative opportunity—it was a competing path that would separate Nadia from our carefully constructed plans. From our household. From us.
"It could be genuine professional mentorship," Braden suggested, though his tone lacked conviction.
"From someone who breaks into houses to deliver letters?" Ryan countered skeptically.
"We don't know they broke in," I pointed out. "It could have been delivered when one of us opened the door to someone."
"None of us would accept a letter without mentioning it," Ryan insisted.
"Unless we didn't know what it was," Braden corrected thoughtfully. "Delivery person, repair service, someone official-looking who said they had documents..."
Nadia had been unusually quiet, studying the letter with intense focus. "Whoever wrote this has seen me perform multiple times," she said finally. "The observations about my vocal technique are...specific. And accurate." She looked up, meeting my eyes specifically. "Things you've mentioned in our rehearsals."
A chill ran through me at the implication. Someone had been watching not just her performances, but our private preparations. Our home rehearsals. Our most intimate professional moments.
"We should call the police," Ryan stated definitively.
"And tell them what?" Braden challenged pragmatically. "That someone offered Nadia a prestigious audition? That's hardly criminal."
"The unauthorized entry—"
"Which we can't prove," Braden interrupted. "We don't know how this arrived."
"It's threatening," Ryan insisted.
"It's not, actually," I observed, rereading the precise language. "Presumptuous, certainly. Boundary-crossing, absolutely. But technically, there's no threat. It's professionally worded, focused entirely on artistic development."
Nadia stood abruptly, the letter clutched in her hand. "I need some air," she announced, moving toward the door with unusual haste.
"Nadia, wait—" Ryan began, reaching for her.
"I just need to think," she cut him off, already halfway through the doorway. "Alone. Please."
Her footsteps receded rapidly, followed by the sound of the front door closing with unusual force. The three of us exchanged concerned glances.
"Should one of us follow her?" I asked, torn between respecting her stated desire for solitude and concern for her safety.
"Give her space," Braden advised after a moment's consideration. "She processes best in motion."
An uncomfortable silence descended, the rehearsal temporarily forgotten as we absorbed this unexpected development.
"Do we tell Andy?" Ryan asked finally.
"Of course," Braden replied, looking surprised at the question. "He's part of this household. He should know what's happening."
"Agreed," I concurred. "If someone has been in our home without authorization, he needs to be aware for security purposes if nothing else."
Ryan nodded, pulling out his phone to text Andy, who was at his performance center meeting. I paced the library, theatrical instincts constructing and discarding scenarios. Who would have both the knowledge of Nadia's talent and the connections to arrange a Royal Opera audition? Who would bypass normal professional channels to deliver such an offer directly and mysteriously?
"We're missing something," I said finally, pausing by the window to look out at the street below, half-hoping to spot Nadia returning. "This isn't random. It's too specific, too tailored to Nadia's particular circumstances."
"Someone who knows about the Phantom audition," Braden agreed, his fingers absently playing silent patterns on the piano keys—his thinking tell.
"And who has observed her vocal technique in detail," I added.
"Someone with European connections," Ryan contributed. "Access to specialized stationery."
"And access to our house," Braden concluded grimly.
We fell silent, the collective implications settling uncomfortably around us. Our brownstone had always been our sanctuary—the one place where our unconventional arrangement existed without explanation or apology. The thought of that private space being penetrated by an unknown observer disturbed me more deeply than I wanted to admit.
"We should continue rehearsing," I suggested finally, reaching for practical action over uncomfortable speculation. "The audition is still happening in three days. Nadia will return when she's processed this... development."
"Seems wrong somehow," Ryan objected. "Carrying on as if nothing's happened."
"What would you suggest instead?" I challenged. "Abandoning our preparation? Allowing this mysterious 'admirer' to disrupt our plans?"
Braden intervened before Ryan could respond. "Dorian's right. We continue. But with awareness. And when Nadia returns, we support whatever she decides."
The statement contained a possibility none of us had verbalized—that Nadia might actually consider this alternative path. That she might choose the Royal Opera over The Phantom. That our carefully aligned London plans might dissolve before they fully materialized.
"She wouldn't—" Ryan began, then stopped himself. "Would she?"
The question hung unanswered as we exchanged uncertain glances. The truth was, we didn't know. For all the intimacy of our arrangement, for all the connections between us, Nadia's artistic ambitions remained ultimately her own. We had each chosen this unconventional life for different reasons, with different priorities.
The front door opened and closed, signaling Nadia's return. Footsteps on the stairs, then she appeared in the doorway, cheeks flushed from the autumn air, eyes bright with some unidentifiable emotion.
"I want to find out who sent it," she declared without preamble.
Relief coursed through me—she wasn't considering the offer, at least not immediately. She was angry, curious, but not seduced by the mysterious proposition.
"How?" Braden asked practically.
A smile curved her lips, determined and slightly dangerous. "We set a trap."