The following Saturday, Malik planned an evening Serena couldn't possibly say no to.
A private showing at the Van Buren Art House—a collection she once said she would "die to see in person." He booked it through an old client, a personal favor. Just the two of them. No sponsors, no gallery owners, no endless streams of handshakes and flattery. Just Serena, Malik, and the art she loved.
He texted her the details that morning, with a smile she couldn't see:
8 PM. Van Buren Art House. Wear something you love.
She responded two hours later with a simple heart emoji.
It was enough, he told himself. It had to be enough.
He stood outside the museum entrance, adjusting the cuffs of his blazer. The sun had dipped below the skyline, leaving a wash of violet and silver in its wake. Streetlights buzzed to life, casting soft halos over the parked cars.
7:50 PM.
He liked being early. It gave him time to study the world. To find the patterns.
Tonight, he found none.
Serena arrived at 8:17 PM.
She stepped out of a town car, wearing a dress he had never seen before. Something shimmering and sharp at the shoulders, more fitting for a gala than a quiet evening together. She looked breathtaking.
She looked like she had dressed for someone else.
"I'm sorry," she said, brushing a kiss against his cheek, her lipstick already worn at the edges. "Landon insisted on one more sponsor meeting. It ran long."
Landon. Again.
"It's fine," Malik said, masking the slow exhale behind a polite smile. "We still have the place to ourselves."
She looped her arm through his. Perfume enveloped him—too strong, too sweet, clinging in a way it never used to.
They entered the gallery together, shoes echoing on marble. Paintings loomed around them, rich with brushstrokes of longing and regret.
Serena walked ahead of him, admiring the pieces. He watched her from a few steps behind, noticing how she barely looked back to see if he was following.
Halfway through the exhibit, they paused in front of a painting—a brutal splash of reds and grays, a battlefield in abstract.
Serena tilted her head. "You can almost feel the violence, can't you?"
Malik looked at the painting. Then at her.
"I feel the loneliness," he said quietly.
She smiled distractedly and moved on to the next canvas.
After the tour, he suggested a late dinner. There was a small Italian place she loved nearby. She hesitated, glancing at her phone.
"I promised I'd meet the team at the lounge on Fifth," she said. "Just for one drink. Investors are in town."
"Another gallery thing?"
Serena laughed lightly. "Always. You know how it is."
He didn't argue. Didn't insist. Just nodded.
"I'll call you tomorrow," she promised, standing on tiptoe to kiss him again, missing his mouth and brushing his jaw instead.
Then she was gone, swept into another waiting car, like she had somewhere better to be.
Malik stood there a long while after.
The wind picked up, cutting between buildings, sharp and restless.
His phone vibrated in his pocket—Jordan, his assistant, reminding him of a zoning review at noon Monday. Normal life still demanded attention. Buildings still needed designing. Deals still needed closing.
He slipped the phone away and looked up at the cold sprawl of the city.
Once, he'd built everything for Serena. Every long night, every boardroom compromise, every inch of ambition had bent itself toward the idea of us.
But she hadn't even noticed the masterpiece she stood in the middle of.
And he—he was beginning to realize he was just another frame on the wall to her.
Background. Convenient. Replaceable.
That night, Malik lay awake again, staring at the ceiling. The city lights poured through the window, cutting sharp lines across the bedroom floor. Serena slept beside him, breathing shallowly, her body turned away.
He reached out once, fingers almost brushing the small of her back.
But he stopped himself.
Instead, he pulled the blanket higher around his shoulders and let the distance between them turn to stone.
The worst betrayals, he realized, didn't come with a knife to the heart.
They came with slow erosion—the thousand small ways someone you loved could forget you were still standing there, waiting for them to reach back.