The New Horizons Gala was everything Serena had promised.
And nothing Malik cared about.
Crystal chandeliers spilled light over the gallery's polished floors.
Strings of champagne flutes floated by on silver trays.
Laughter and applause rippled through the crowd as Celina Vaurin's sculptures were unveiled, each piece bathed in flattering spotlights.
Serena shone in a deep sapphire gown, her hair coiled into a sculptural twist, diamonds at her throat catching every glint of flashbulbs.
Malik stood beside her, immaculate in a black tuxedo, calm and silent as a loaded gun.
He smiled when she introduced him to investors.
He shook hands with politicians and critics.
He posed for photographs with one arm loosely around her waist.
To anyone watching, they looked untouchable.
Flawless.
But up close, the seams were starting to show.
Serena clung to him harder tonight.
Small touches. Inside jokes forced through gritted teeth.
Her laughter a little too loud, her gaze darting too often to the corners of the room — searching for approval, for admiration.
Searching for the illusion to hold.
Malik let her.
He played his role to perfection.
Until Celina's "main piece" was unveiled—an abstract sculpture Serena had poured her sponsorship and reputation into.
The applause was loud.
Too loud.
Almost mocking.
Malik clapped, expression unreadable.
When the art critic from The Aesthete Review — one of the city's sharpest tongues — sidled up to him with a champagne flute, he said casually:
"Bold investment, sponsoring Vaurin.
Takes real vision to bet on the avant-garde these days."
Malik smiled thinly, glancing toward the sculpture.
"Vision," he said, sipping his drink,
"or desperation."
The critic blinked.
And then, to Malik's satisfaction, laughed.
Low and delighted.
The first loose thread pulled.
Serena noticed.
Of course she did.
When Malik rejoined her side, her hand slid around his arm with a touch too much pressure.
"Everything alright?" she asked, voice low under the hum of music and glasses clinking.
"Perfect," Malik said, brushing a kiss against her temple.
A public kiss — staged for the cameras flashing nearby.
The kind of kiss that said everything was fine.
The kind that could be printed in magazines.
The kind that meant nothing at all.
Later, when they posed for official portraits, Serena leaned into him, head resting lightly against his shoulder.
Malik smiled for the camera.
One hand at her waist.
Steady.
Poised.
And already gone.
By midnight, Serena was glowing — basking in congratulatory handshakes, whispered admiration, the buzz of success she had so desperately curated.
She didn't notice the way certain investors avoided locking eyes with her for too long.
She didn't notice the tiny seeds Malik had started planting.
She didn't notice the critic smiling a little too knowingly at Malik from across the room.
But she would.
Soon.
When the lights went down and the applause faded—
Serena Calvert-Graves would realize:
You can only dance on a threadbare stage for so long
before the floor gives way beneath you.