Chapter 14
At this announcement, the younger dancers erupted in excited squeals and whispers.
“Oh my God, Luigi Maggiore is coming here?”
“I heard he hasn’t attended a social event in months!”
“Do you think he’s looking for new talent to sponsor?”
The company scattered to their dressing rooms, frantically touching up makeup and adjusting costumes, each hoping to catch the eye of Boston’s most eligible widower. Only Ariana remained frozen in place, her mind racing with alarm.
Why would Luigi come backstage? Even during his most obsessive pursuit of her years ago, he had never once visited her behind the scenes—his assistants had simply delivered roses or arranged town cars. Her thoughts spiraled into darker territory. Was this somehow connected to the revenge plots she’d schemed with his friends? Had he somehow recognized her despite the mask? Was he planning some new humiliation as punishment for deceiving him with her false death?
Her fingernails dug painfully into her palms as fragmented memories of the ninety-eight “pranks” flashed through her mind.
“Ariana,” Margaret’s concerned voice cut through her panic. “You’ve gone completely white.”
“I just—” she managed, her usual composure crumbling.
“You don’t look well at all. Perhaps you should return to the hotel before he arrives. I’ll make your excuses—some diplomatic nonsense about vocal rest affecting your breathing. Don’t worry about Maggiore—we’ve got plenty of donors without him.”
Ariana nodded gratefully, not trusting her voice. With a quick pivot, she headed for the stage door, not even pausing to remove her performance mask or change from her costume.
Just as she reached the exit corridor, approaching footsteps echoed from beyond the heavy velvet curtain, accompanied by the theater director’s sycophantic voice.
“Right this way, Mr. Maggiore. The company is absolutely thrilled you’ve joined us tonight. Your support of the arts is legendary.”
As the curtain began to part, Ariana’s heart nearly stopped. She quickly ducked into a shadowed alcove used for quick costume changes, pressing herself against the wall as Luigi entered the backstage area.
The Back Swan’s Final Revenge Pirouette: The 99th
Female dancers, in various stages of readiness, voices overlapping as they introduced themselves:
“Mr. Maggiore, I danced the second variation—”
“—such an honor to meet you—”
“—would love to show you around Boston sometime—”
Their competing fragrances created a suffocating cloud of flora and fat, making him physically recoil. The artificial sweetness reminded him, by warkoor, of the samples sent over—clean soap and occasionally a hint of jasmine when she’d splurge on key tests. He endured their attention with practiced stoicism, his eyes methodically teasing the surface. Something—someone—had drawn him here, and it wasn’t these eager young women with their ambitions.
As he nodded mechanically at whatever the blonde in front of him was saying, a barely perceptible scent cut through the perfume fog—the faintest trace of jasmine and something uniquely familiar. His body recognized it before his mind could process why.
Luigi’s attention sharpened, his gaze sweeping the room with renewed focus until locking onto a shadowed alcove where a figure in a pink costume stood partially concealed.
“That would be your principal dancer, wouldn’t it?” he asked abruptly, cutting off the blonde mid-sentence.
With those words, he redirected every eye in the room toward the corner where Ariana had tried to hide. Finding herself suddenly illuminated by attention, she felt her pulse stutter, then race wildly. The artistic director, realizing Ariana hadn’t managed to escape, shot her an apologetic glance before reluctantly motioning her forward.
Ariana approached with the measured composure that years of performance had instilled in her, though her heart hammered so violently she feared it might be visible through her costume. Luigi made no attempt to disguise his scrutiny. His eyes tracked methodically from her temple to her toes, lingering on specific details—the particular curve of her wrist, the precise length of her fingers, the slight asymmetry in her shoulders that he had once memorized while watching her sleep.
He searched desperately for confirmation, frustrated by the mask that still concealed the features he once knew better than his own. Each familiar element sent a jolt of recognition through him, yet without seeing her face, certainty remained just beyond reach.
The silence between them stretched, electric.
“Why are you still wearing your mask?” Despite the chaos in his mind, a steady thought emerged. From the moment she had first appeared onstage, something about her had reached directly into the most wounded part of him. While every other dancer had worked desperately to gain his notice tonight, this woman alone seemed determined to avoid it. She had been the first to vanish during curtain calls, nearly running from the stage as if primed by something only she could see.
This evasiveness fascinated him. Since his public announcement as a grieving widower, Boston’s socialites had pursued him relentlessly despite his obvious disinterest. Yet this dancer recoiled from him as if he were radioactive. More unsettling still was how her movement quality had triggered something visceral within him—for a brief, irrational moment, he’d believed he was watching Ariana, impossible as that was. If he hadn’t personally scattered what remained of her ashes after Leila’s desecration, he might have believed in ghosts.
These questions had driven him backstage immediately after the performance, propelled by an irrational hope he couldn’t even admit to himself—that somehow, impossibly, this was Ariana. Ghost or miracle, hallucination or elaborate deception—he didn’t care. He just needed to see her one more time, to say what he should have said years ago, before it was too late. To beg forgiveness from the woman whose life he had destroyed for a revenge that was never justified to begin with.