The rain had stopped sometime before dawn,
leaving the city wrapped in a cold, wet hush.
Serena sat in the middle of the living room floor,
barefoot, hair loose around her shoulders,
still clutching the leather-bound folder Malik had shoved into her hands.
She hadn't slept.
Hadn't cried.
Hadn't moved much at all.
She told herself — again — that it wasn't real.
People fought.
People said terrible things when they were angry.
Malik was angry.
He would calm down.
He always did.
The memory of his face, so still and cold,
flashed behind her eyes like lightning.
He hadn't yelled.
He hadn't cursed.
He had just...
finished her.
Quietly.
She pushed herself off the floor finally,
the leather folder dropping to the carpet like a dead thing.
She needed to move.
Needed to act.
Needed to remind him that they were better than this.
That he loved her.
He just forgot for a minute.
By noon, she was at the gallery.
Perfect makeup.
Tailored dress.
Diamond earrings — a subtle reminder of the life they had built together.
She smiled at the assistants.
Gave instructions about the weekend showing.
Made notes about new investor meetings.
Everything normal.
Everything under control.
Except—
the atmosphere was... different.
Colder.
Assistants spoke in softer voices when she passed.
The PR manager averted his eyes.
Even the interns, usually buzzing with nervous energy, moved like shadows.
Serena caught one whisper at the edge of a hallway:
"Did you hear? Malik—"
The voices cut off when she turned the corner.
Smiles snapped into place like broken shutters against a storm.
She brushed it off.
She had more important things to focus on.
She drafted a message to Malik on her phone:
I'm sorry.
Let's talk.
I love you.
She stared at it for a long time before hitting send.
No read receipt.
No reply.
Meetings were rescheduled.
Sponsorship emails went unanswered.
Even the caterer for the upcoming winter gala — the same one she had used for three years — left a vague, apologetic voicemail about "budget re-evaluations" and "new priorities."
Still, Serena refused to panic.
She could fix this.
She had always been able to fix things.
Hadn't she?
She went home early that evening, kicking off her heels at the door, reaching automatically for the second wine glass in the cabinet—
and stopping mid-motion.
There was no second glass anymore.
Malik had taken it.
The silence of the penthouse wrapped around her like wet cloth.
Heavy.
Suffocating.
Her phone buzzed on the counter.
She grabbed it so fast she nearly dropped it.
But it wasn't Malik.
It was a notice from the building management.
Ownership transfer confirmed.
Penthouse listed under a new title:
Graves Holdings, LLC.
Serena stared at the screen,
her stomach folding in on itself.
It had only been twenty-four hours.
And already, the ground beneath her was beginning to crumble.
She closed her eyes.
Breathed in.
Smiled.
Fake it until you fix it, her mother had always said.
And Serena had built a life on painted smiles.
She would build another if she had to.
She would.
She would.