The screen glowed in the dim office,
the first video file opening with a soft click.
Malik sat perfectly still,
hands folded neatly in his lap,
watching.
There she was.
Serena.
Laughing in the arms of another man.
Not in passing.
Not by mistake.
Comfortable.
Familiar.
Like it had been happening for a long, long time.
The camera angle shifted.
Another file.
Another day.
A parking lot.
The back seat of a sleek black SUV.
Windows fogged.
Bodies pressed together in desperate movements.
No guilt.
No hesitation.
Only hunger.
Malik watched without flinching.
The videos rolled on—grainy hotel security footage,
still shots from street cameras,
audio snippets caught near elevators and private doors.
Each piece painting the same picture:
She hadn't just made a mistake.
She had built a second life,
layered carefully behind the one she showed him.
A life where Malik Graves was a stranger,
and Landon Croix was the man she wanted.
The final video ended with a quiet mechanical click.
The screen faded to black.
Silence swallowed the room.
Malik stayed where he was,
hands folded,
the laptop still open,
the USB still humming faintly with the weight of truth.
He sat back in his chair,
staring at the darkened city skyline beyond his window.
And for the first time in months—
maybe years—
he didn't feel anything.
Not rage.
Not sorrow.
Not betrayal.
Just quiet.
The kind of quiet that comes after the last embers have burned out
and the ashes have finally cooled.
He didn't close the laptop.
Didn't remove the drive.
Didn't move to put on his jacket.
There would be no confrontation.
No screaming matches.
No begging.
No revenge.
Only the truth—
waiting,
sharp and cold,
sitting heavy between them.
He knew she would come home eventually.
Late.
Reeking of rain and excuses.
And he would be here,
still and silent,
ready.
One last thing to finish.
One last mask to tear off.