Serena planned another dinner party.
Not a big gala, not a formal affair—just a "few close friends," as she put it, laughing lightly over her coffee cup.
"We haven't hosted in forever," she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "People are starting to wonder if we're hiding."
Malik smiled from across the counter, setting down the site plans he had been reviewing.
Not hiding.
Not anymore.
"Sounds good," he said easily.
Serena blinked, surprised by the quick agreement.
She had expected resistance.
Maybe even an argument she could win.
Instead, she found... nothing.
Polite acceptance.
The night of the party, Serena glided through the apartment, directing caterers, adjusting flower arrangements, slipping into a low-backed emerald dress that clung to every curve.
Malik watched her move from the study, sipping a glass of whiskey, his suit impeccable, his expression unreadable.
She was breathtaking, as always.
But the beauty felt curated now.
Like a gallery piece meant for everyone else's admiration, not his.
The guests arrived in waves:
Investors. Artists. Gallery owners. A few old friends with sharper smiles than memories.
Among them, inevitably, was Landon Croix.
He wore an ash gray suit a shade too loud for the occasion, flashing a gleaming watch that caught the candlelight like bait.
When Serena laughed at something he whispered in her ear, Malik simply excused himself and refilled his drink.
He wasn't jealous.
He wasn't even angry.
He was... observing.
And Serena, for the first time, seemed to feel it.
She kept glancing his way across the room—smiling too brightly, laughing too loudly, moving through the crowd with a desperate kind of grace.
She wanted him to watch her.
To chase her.
He didn't.
He stood beside Jordan, discussing zoning permits, city budgets, mundane logistics with a casual focus that drove a small, tight knot into Serena's chest.
Later, when the night thinned out and the last champagne flutes were abandoned on the tables, Serena found Malik standing alone on the balcony, city lights painting cold fire across his face.
She wrapped her arms around his waist from behind, pressing her cheek against his back.
"You've been distant all night," she whispered.
Malik glanced over his shoulder, smiling faintly. "Just giving you space."
Her arms tightened slightly.
"I don't want space," she said, her voice breaking just enough to betray her fear.
"I want you."
He turned, brushing a loose curl from her face with surprising gentleness.
"I'm right here," he said.
And he was.
Physically.
But emotionally, Malik Graves was already miles away, standing on a shoreline she could never reach.
And somewhere deep inside, Serena Calvert-Graves felt the terrifying truth beginning to creep up her spine—
She was losing him.
And this time, there would be no apology sweet enough, no dress tight enough, no lie pretty enough to stop it.