The next morning, Serena woke with a rare lightness in her chest.
She smoothed the sheets beside her — Malik's side already empty — but she didn't let it bother her.
He was busy.
Working.
Building.
Just like always.
And he had asked her to sign documents yesterday.
That had to mean something.
She spent the morning drafting emails to the gallery sponsors,
curating smiles she planned to wear like armor.
Rebuilding.
Repainting.
Saving.
Midday, she called her mother.
Habit.
Hope.
A foolish mix of both.
The phone rang twice before Dolores answered, voice sharp as ever.
"Serena."
"Hi, Mother."
Serena smiled into the phone, even though she knew her mother couldn't see it.
"I just wanted to update you. Malik and I—
We're working things out."
There was a pause, brief but telling.
Then Dolores's voice softened, turning icy and smooth.
"Good," she said.
"Keep it that way.
No one respects a woman who can't control her own marriage."
A beat.
"Remember, dear — it doesn't have to be real.
It only has to look real."
The line went dead a moment later.
Serena stood alone in her kitchen, staring at the gleaming surfaces.
Not real.
Just perfect.
Just painted.
And somehow, that made her feel stronger, not weaker.
She could do this.
She would do this.
She would hold everything together.
Even if it killed her.
Across the city, Malik sat at his desk, the USB glinting under his lamp.
He watched the skyline shift beyond his window,
a silent countdown ticking away.
Tonight.
He would see the truth.
And tomorrow—
He would be free.