Chapter 13

Recalling the disastrous fate of that previous business partner, Michael silently calculated how many hours he’d need to update his resume after today’s inevitable implosion. He inhaled deeply, steeling himself for the tempest of Luigi’s rage.

To his absolute shock, Luigi not only picked up the tickets but examined them with unexpected interest, his fingers tracing the embossed lettering with something approaching tenderness. The tickets were elegantly minimal—clean black typography on heavy cream cardstock, containing only essential information without a single decorative flourish. The stark simplicity transported Luigi to a moment he’d spent years trying to forget.

Ariana, curled up on their bed three years ago, sketching ticket designs on her tablet, her hair piled messily atop her head. She’d been so alive then—passionate, determined, completely herself.

“Look at this,” she’d said, holding up a clean, minimalist design. “Don’t you think this actually communicates more than all that cluttered nonsense they keep asking for?”

He remembered how she would return from her internship at Boston Ballet, dramatically flopping onto their couch with entertaining impressions of the marketing director.

“It needs more pizzazz,” she’d mimic in an exaggerated voice, gesturing wildly. “Make the font bigger! Add sparkles! People won’t know it’s art unless we hit them over the head with it!”

Luigi had laughed then—casually, carelessly, not appreciating how perfect those ordinary moments were. How perfect she had been.

If he hadn’t destroyed everything with his revenge plot, would they be sharing those moments still? Would she be designing minimalist tickets for performances he attended proudly as her husband? The thought sliced through him with surgical precision.

Something about these tickets felt like a sign—an impossible, irrational signal that he should attend. A whisper in his mind suggested that perhaps, somehow, he might find a trace of Ariana there, some echo of what he’d lost.

Without fully understanding his own impulse, he carefully slid the tickets into his jacket pocket and addressed his stunned assistant: “We’re going. Tonight.”

Chapter 13

Inside the theater, Boston’s elite buzzed with pre-performance excitement. Various executives and society figures made obligatory pilgrimages to Luigi’s front-row seat, attempting to secure a moment of his increasingly rare public attention. Luigi acknowledged them with minimal effort—a slight nod, a disinterested “sure”—until they retreated, sensing the invisible wall surrounding him.

As the lights dimmed, Luigi tensed reflexively. Dance performances had become emotional landmines since Ariana’s death. The curtain rose to reveal a solo dancer in a blush-pink costume, frozen in elegant repose. When the music began, she unfurled like a flower opening to sunlight, her movements transcending mere choreography. Her raven hair caught the stage lights as she turned, creating the impression of liquid shadow following her movements. Despite the pearl-white half-mask concealing her features, her artistic expression radiated through every gesture.

Luigi, who had been enduring rather than watching, found himself inexplicably drawn to her performance. There was something in her movement quality that struck a chord of deep recognition within him. The precise way she extended through her fingertips during an arabesque, the characteristic tilt of her head during pirouettes, the musicality of her phrasing—all of it achingly familiar.

A memory surfaced with painful clarity: Ariana dancing in their apartment, barefoot on hardwood floors, demonstrating a phrase she’d been working on. “Watch this transition,” she’d said, executing the exact same distinctive port de bras he was witnessing now. Luigi’s breath caught in his throat as past and present began to blur.

The dancer on stage moved with such similar qualities that he could almost believe the impossible—that somehow, through some miracle, he was watching Ariana herself. As she completed a particularly challenging sequence, approaching the edge of the stage nearest his seat, Luigi found himself leaning forward involuntarily, heart hammering against his ribs.

“Ariana?” he whispered, the name escaping before he could stop it.

For the briefest moment, almost imperceptible to anyone else, the dancer’s rhythm faltered slightly—a millisecond hesitation before she recovered flawlessly and continued her variation without acknowledging the front row. That momentary break in perfection sent electricity through Luigi’s veins. It couldn’t be coincidence. It couldn’t.

As the piece concluded and thunderous applause erupted around him, Luigi remained fixated on the masked dancer, searching for further confirmation of what seemed both impossible and suddenly, desperately necessary to believe.

Chapter 11

Backstage, surrounded by the euphoria of a successful opening night, Ariana pressed one hand against her racing heart, trying to steady her breathing behind her mask. She had prepared herself intellectually for seeing Luigi again—had rehearsed this moment in her mind countless times. But nothing could have prepared her for the visceral reality of hearing his voice call her name after all this time.

During her variation, when his voice had carried to her ears, memories had crashed through her carefully constructed defenses—quiet Sunday mornings in their apartment, his rare but genuine laughter, the way his eyes would sometimes soften when he looked at her. For a dangerous moment, muscle memory had nearly betrayed her—her body remembering the way it used to respond to his voice, almost turning toward him as it had hundreds of times before.

But she had recovered instantly, continuing her performance without visible reaction. The past was past. Whatever genuine feelings might have existed between them had been built on a foundation of lies. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for her water bottle. Let him suspect. Without proof, his suspicions would remain just that. After all, Luigi Maggiore himself had presided over Ariana Collins’ funeral, presented her remains to Boston society. That woman was legally, officially dead.

As this clinical reminder steadied her nerves, Ariana turned toward her dressing room, eager to remove her costume and mask before departing through the stage door. Before she could escape, the artistic director appeared, clapping sharply for attention.

“Places, everyone!” she announced with barely concealed excitement. “Mr. Maggiore and several major donors will be coming backstage momentarily to meet the company. This is not a drill, people—our future funding may depend on this impression!”