The warmth from Serena's side of the bed had already faded.
Malik stirred, his arm brushing against the sheets she had slipped out of hours ago. The sky outside was still a dusky gray, morning not yet brave enough to fully arrive. Somewhere across the city, he imagined the hum of gallery lights flicking on, the clink of early coffee cups being filled, Serena already in motion—untouchable, elegant, just beyond his reach.
He ran a hand over his face, then sat up slowly. The faint scent of her perfume still lingered on the pillow: rosewater and cedar. It used to comfort him.
Now it just felt like absence.
She had been leaving earlier lately. Sometimes before dawn. Always with a kiss on the cheek and a soft whisper of, "Don't wake up, love. I have to meet the artist from Marseille," or "The gallery's being inspected this morning. I'll send you photos."
And she did send photos. Of flower arrangements. New installations. Smiling artists.
But never of herself.
He dressed slowly, in layers. Tailored slacks. Crisp white shirt. Cufflinks she had given him on their second anniversary. A pair of cufflinks she probably hadn't noticed him wear in months.
When he entered the kitchen, the espresso machine was still warm. A single empty cup sat by the sink, a dark smear of lipstick along the rim.
He looked at it longer than he meant to.
The Graves Development offices were quiet when he arrived. They always were on Fridays. His team preferred remote work when deadlines allowed. But Malik liked the stillness of the building—he'd designed it that way. Clean angles. Natural light. Silence like a second skin.
His assistant, Jordan, looked up from her desk as he passed.
"Morning, Mr. Graves. Serena called. Said she might drop by the office later."
He paused. "Did she say why?"
"No, sir. Just said she wanted to see you before your meeting with the city board."
He nodded. "Let me know when she arrives."
In his office, he sat behind a custom walnut desk—minimalist, wide, built without drawers. He hated clutter. Everything in his world had a place, a logic. That's why Serena had always fit so well. She understood balance. Style. Presence.
Until lately.
He pulled out his phone. Scrolled to her last message.
—Don't wait up tonight. Landon's dinner for the investors ran late. I'm crashing at the gallery loft. Love you.
Malik read it twice.
He didn't respond.
She arrived just before noon.
Dressed immaculately, as always. Soft cream slacks, a blouse that shimmered faintly under the office lighting. Her hair swept into a bun that looked effortless but cost time. She wore her success like perfume—meant to linger after she left the room.
"Mal," she said, smiling, stepping close enough to kiss his cheek. He let her. "You look tired."
"You left early," he said.
"There was a shipment mix-up," she lied, easily. "The gallery's getting some new French abstracts in for the Southbend opening. I didn't want you to worry."
He gestured toward the coffee bar in the corner. "Want a drink?"
She shook her head. "I won't stay long. Just wanted to say hi. Also, I may need your signature on some permit paperwork for the expansion next month. Landon thinks we're being too aggressive with the timeline, but I want to stay ahead."
Landon again.
She spoke his name with such casual comfort, Malik had stopped noticing it at some point. He used to joke that Landon was her second husband. She'd laugh, toss her hair, kiss him on the jaw and say, "Please, Mal. You're the only one who matters."
That was a year ago.
Now she just said things like, "Landon thinks we should double the champagne budget."
He took the papers she offered and glanced at them. The expansion was real. So were the permits. But she'd always used him for legal leverage—his name, his reputation. She never needed his money. She just liked how doors opened when he stood beside her.
"Thank you," she said, brushing his arm as she turned to leave. "Let's have dinner tomorrow. Just the two of us."
"Sure," he said.
She smiled again. "I love you."
He didn't say it back. Not because he didn't feel it.
But because the words tasted strange now. Thin. Hollowed out.
That night, he stood on the balcony of their apartment, overlooking the city he helped shape. The skyline was a mirror of his mind—precise, layered, cold.
He sipped bourbon. The same bourbon she bought him last Christmas.
He didn't want to believe anything was wrong.
But a small crack had formed in the center of his carefully controlled world. He didn't know what lay beneath it yet.
But he knew cracks always deepened.
And one day, they shattered everything.