The Summer Launch Gala was supposed to save everything.
That's what Serena told herself as she slipped into a custom silver gown, adjusted her earrings in the mirror, and pasted a perfect smile across her face.
The gallery was drenched in soft golden light, the new exhibits unveiled like gifts waiting to be unwrapped.
Strings played from a corner stage.
Waiters drifted by with trays of champagne and smoked salmon.
It was beautiful.
It was polished.
It was all a lie.
Malik stood near the entrance, dressed in a charcoal suit, a glass of bourbon in hand.
He watched Serena glide from guest to guest—laughing, posing, flirting carefully with potential donors.
He saw the tightness around her eyes.
The stiffness in her jaw when investors offered polite but shallow praise.
The way her phone stayed hidden in her clutch, vibrating occasionally like a live wire she couldn't bear to touch.
He knew what was coming.
He had been waiting for it.
It didn't take long.
Halfway through Serena's speech—thanking patrons, praising Celina's latest works, promising a "brilliant summer of creative innovation"—the side doors banged open.
Landon Croix stumbled in.
Not clean-cut.
Not polished.
Not ready for cameras.
Disheveled suit.
Glassy eyes.
Anger thinly veiled behind a shaky smile.
Serena's voice faltered mid-sentence.
The audience turned.
The music slowed and then stopped.
A hush fell over the room.
Landon swayed forward, raising a glass.
"To Serena Calvert-Graves," he slurred loudly, voice echoing off the marble floors.
"Patron saint of... loyalty."
Soft, awkward chuckles rippled through the crowd—people unsure whether it was a joke.
Serena's hands clenched tightly around the podium.
"Landon," she said through a clenched smile.
"Maybe we can catch up—later—"
He ignored her.
"You know what I love most about you, Serena?" he said, voice pitching higher.
"You make promises in the dark you can't keep in the light."
The room stilled further.
A few of the smarter investors began inching toward the exits, murmuring excuses.
Malik sipped his bourbon slowly, the taste smooth and final.
Security moved toward Landon—slowly at first, then faster when he knocked over a display stand with a clumsy swing of his arm.
Art shattered on the floor.
Gasps echoed.
Landon laughed—a broken, ugly sound.
"You're all buying a brand," he said, turning in a circle to face the room.
"Not a woman.
Not a wife.
A brand."
The guards grabbed his arms, dragging him back toward the doors.
He didn't resist—just grinned.
And before he was pulled out, he turned one last time toward Serena.
"He knows, you know," Landon said, voice low but carrying.
"He's just better at pretending than you are."
The doors slammed behind him.
The silence was suffocating.
Serena stood frozen at the podium, the microphone still hot in her hands.
Eyes. Everywhere.
Judgment. Heavy as a stone.
Malik set down his glass.
He adjusted his jacket sleeves with slow precision.
The time had come.
No more stages.
No more lights.
No more lies.
As Serena stumbled through the closing lines of her speech—voice thin, hands shaking—Malik turned away from the stage.
He pulled out his phone, texting Victoria Lane three simple words:
Move the filings.
And across the city,
the machine of ending began to turn.
Quiet.
Inevitable.
Final.