Chapter 17

Just as Ariana turned to leave, a loud thud stopped her mid-step. Turning back, she found Michael Luigi’s executive assistant staring at her with shock etched across his face, his dropped briefcase scattered across the hospital floor.

“Mrs… Maggiore?” he stammered, his face draining of color. “Is that really you?”

Escape, it seemed, wouldn’t be so simple. Michael recovered quickly, positioning himself between Ariana and the exit with newfound determination.

“Please,” he implored, lowering his voice. “You can’t just disappear again. You have no idea what he’s been through since the fire. The man hasn’t slept a single night in a year. Even if you want nothing to do with him now, at least stay until he’s out of surgery. He literally just took a car impact for you.”

Ariana regarded him coolly, her expression betraying nothing of the calculations happening behind it.

“First,” she stated with clinical precision, “I am not Mrs. Maggiore. That person died in a fire last year—a fact your boss publicly confirmed.”

“Second, I’ll stay until he’s stable, but I’m leaving immediately after. My company has a performance tomorrow.”

“Third, I have zero interest in rekindling any connection with Luigi Maggiore. Our relationship ended the moment he orchestrated my death.”

With each statement, Michael’s professional facade cracked further, revealing genuine distress, but he eventually nodded in reluctant agreement to her terms.

They settled into the antiseptic waiting room chairs, silence stretching between them as surgery continued behind closed doors. After checking her phone for the twenty-first time—nearly three hours had elapsed—the operating room doors finally swung open.

Luigi emerged on a gurney, his head heavily bandaged, but surprisingly conscious. His unfocused gaze swept the waiting area until it found her, his eyes immediately sharpening with recognition.

“Ariana!” The word escaped like a prayer.

Inside the private hospital suite, despite multiple fractures and internal bleeding, Luigi reached for her the moment the medical staff departed, his trembling hands gripping hers with desperate intensity.

“You’re real,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I was sure I’d hallucinated you. I kept telling them to make sure you were here when I woke up, but they thought it was the concussion talking. You’re actually alive.”

He pulled her closer, as if expecting her to evaporate at any moment. Ariana remained perfectly still within his grasp, her voice devoid of emotion: “Your enthusiasm isn’t mutual.”

“What?” Confusion clouded his features.

She methodically extracted her hands from his grip, stepping back with deliberate precision.

“The best thing that ever happened to me, Luigi, was when everyone believed I died.” Her tone was conversational, as if discussing the weather. “It gave me the freedom to build a life without looking over my shoulder for your next ‘prank.’”

She maintained unwavering eye contact as she continued. “Not many people could experience ninety-eight calculated humiliations from the person they trusted most and still remain standing in the same room with them without screaming. I consider it a personal achievement.”

Each measured word struck with surgical precision. Luigi’s face drained of color as the full implications registered—she had known. All along, she had known everything.

Ignoring his injuries, he struggled upright, nearly tearing out his IV in panic.

“Ariana, please,” he begged, reaching for her. “It wasn’t—it started that way, but things changed—I changed—”

“Save it,” she interrupted, glancing at her watch. “I have a performance tomorrow that requires my complete focus. This melodrama wasn’t on my schedule.”

“Don’t leave,” he pleaded, grabbing her wrist. “I can’t lose you again. Not when I’ve just found you.”

“Let go of me.” Her voice remained level.

“I can’t.” He shook his head frantically, his grip tightening. “Please, just listen.”

Realizing direct confrontation wouldn’t work, Ariana changed tactics. Her expression shifted subtly, taking on a weariness that penetrated his desperation.

“Luigi, the National Ballet has a sold-out performance tomorrow. Twenty-eight dancers and thousands of ticket holders are counting on me to deliver.”

She delivered the final blow with quiet precision: “Are you planning to sabotage my career again? Like you did before my first showcase as principal? Or is that particular revenge technique too redundant to use twice?”

The reference landed like a physical blow. His fingers darkened instantly as recognition flashed across his face. That incident had occurred during their first week together when she had still believed his interest was genuine. It had been her debut as lead dancer in a prestigious competition after months of exhaustive preparation. She’d spent countless nights perfecting the choreography with her teammates, pushing through pain and exhaustion to create something exceptional. The evening before the competition, Luigi had “surprised” her with an impromptu weekend away, effectively detaining her at his lakehouse, her phone mysteriously “forgotten” at his apartment. By the time she’d managed to contact her team, the competition was over, her understudy having stepped in. The devastation on her teammates’ faces had haunted her for months afterward—a humiliation she later realized had been perfectly orchestrated.

Now, watching his expression, she saw the memory register. Something fractured behind his eyes as the reality of his past cruelty collided with his desperate need to keep her from walking away.

His hand fell away from her wrist, defeat written in every line of his body.