The gallery felt colder now.
Even with the soft lighting, the curated art, the polished floors —
Serena could feel the chill leaking in from every corner.
Guests canceled meetings.
Sponsors "rescheduled" lunches.
A few reporters who once clamored for interviews stopped returning her calls.
It was all slipping,
just beyond her reach.
And Malik—
Malik wasn't helping.
He was polite.
Courteous.
But distant in a way that was worse than anger.
His presence at home was like a closed door she didn't have a key for anymore.
Serena stood by the gallery windows that afternoon, watching the gray city smear past the glass in lazy streaks of rain.
She barely registered the two women browsing the sculptures nearby until she caught a scrap of their conversation.
"Did you hear?"
"Sierra Thorne closed the Midtown project."
"Of course she did. She's untouchable right now. Real empire material."
They laughed lightly and moved on, their heels clicking across the marble.
Serena's hands curled into fists at her sides.
Sierra Thorne.
The name twisted in her gut.
A woman who built real things.
Solid things.
Not paper castles glued together with gallery openings and sponsorship deals.
Serena's phone buzzed.
A name she hadn't seen in days.
Landon.
For a moment, she stared at the screen, caught between exhaustion and fury.
She should delete it.
She should block him.
Instead, she opened the message.
I'm sorry for the other night.
I didn't mean to make things worse for you.
Can we talk?
Just you and me. No pressure.
Serena pressed her lips together hard.
No pressure.
Like he hadn't just thrown a grenade into her life.
Still...
Malik barely spoke to her now.
Her mother only called to pressure her.
The city was shifting under her heels.
And Landon—
at least Landon looked at her like she still mattered.
Even if it was a lie.
Especially if it was.
That evening, she sat across from Malik at the dinner table, the silence between them heavy as concrete.
The clink of silverware.
The muted hum of the news in the background.
Nothing else.
No smiles.
No touches.
Just two strangers pretending not to notice the widening void between them.
Serena set her fork down carefully.
"I'm thinking about reopening the winter charity auctions," she said, voice overly bright.
"Might be good for optics after the gala."
Malik nodded once without looking up from his plate.
"Do what you think is best."
That was all.
That was always all now.
Later that night, while Malik reviewed business contracts in his private study,
Serena stared at her phone again.
Finally, with trembling fingers, she typed:
Tomorrow. Noon. The old café near Paloma Street.
She hesitated only a moment before hitting send.
Then she tossed the phone facedown onto the bed,
pretending that one small message hadn't just ripped another seam in her paper castle.
Outside, the rain intensified,
washing the city clean.
Or trying to.