The Black Swan's Final Revenge Pirouette: The 99th Game Was Mine All Along by Kylie Homme

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

erfect 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?

through him with surgical

felt like a sign–an impossible, irrational signal that he should attend. A whisper in his mind suggested that perhaps, somehow, he

he carefully slid the tickets into his

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

Chapter 13

rare public attention.

a disinterested “sure“-until they retreated, sensing the invisible wall

performances

dancer in a blush–pink costume, frozen in elegant repose. When the music began, she unfurled like a flower

shadow following her movements.

to her performance. There was something in her

within him.

way she extended through her fingertips during an arabesque, the characteristic tilt of her head during pirouettes, the musicality of her

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

throat as past and present

could almost believe the impossible–that somehow, through some miracle, he was watching Ariana herself.

particularly challenging sequence, approaching the edge of the stage nearest his seat, Luigi found himself leaning forward involuntarily, heart hammering against his

he whispered, the name escaping before he could

faltered slightly–a millisecond hesitation before she recovered flawlessly and continued her variation without acknowledging the front row.

electricity through Luigi’s veins.

couldn’t.

applause erupted around him, Luigi remained fixated on the masked dancer, searching for further