The dinner party was never just a dinner party.
Serena had framed it as "a cozy night in" with friends, but as the evening unfolded, Malik saw it for what it was: a curated showing of power.
At the center of it all: Celina Vaurin, a 24-year-old French sculptor with asymmetrical bangs and a faux-shy smile that had already charmed half the gallery circuit.
Celina was Serena's newest obsession—her "mentee."
A rising star whose entire career Serena planned to claim as a personal triumph.
"This is Celina's first time in the States," Serena explained to the group, her arm lightly draped around the young artist's shoulders. "Her work speaks to a postmodern grief that's often too raw for conventional collectors."
Malik sipped his drink.
Celina's sculptures looked like broken ceramic bowls.
Still, everyone clapped politely.
Serena moved through the room like it was a stage.
Celina at her side.
Landon trailing just behind, like a man auditioning for a role no one had promised him.
Malik watched from the corner of the room, his whiskey untouched.
Serena caught his eye once. Smiled.
A performance smile. The kind she used when investors were watching.
He gave her nothing back.
Later in the evening, as the guests lingered in small knots and the wine began to flow freely, Landon approached.
Of course he did.
"Graves," he said smoothly, glass in hand, smirk already loading.
Malik barely turned. "Croix."
"I was just telling Celina how incredible this space is. Minimalist, but elegant. Very on-trend."
Malik glanced at him. "It's been on-trend for about a decade. But I'm glad you caught up."
Landon laughed. Too loudly.
"I like what you've done with the walls. Clean. Controlled."
He leaned in slightly, voice just low enough.
"Very different from how Serena's been describing your marriage lately."
Malik turned fully now. Calm. Still.
"You know," he said, "people who need rooms to orbit usually come with very little gravity of their own."
Landon blinked.
Malik stepped forward, dropping his voice into something colder than the glass in his hand.
"She tells you things in the dark.
But when the lights are on?
You're just background noise.
The kind no one turns down—because they forgot it was even playing."
Landon's face tightened.
But Malik smiled gently, patting his arm once before turning away.
Like he was giving him condolences.
Serena noticed the tension from across the room.
She crossed over quickly, brushing her hand lightly across Malik's lower back.
"Everything alright?" she asked.
"Perfect," Malik said, setting his glass down. "Your protégé's performance was memorable."
"She's not performing," Serena said softly, her voice sharpening just slightly.
Malik tilted his head. "Aren't we all?"
Then he kissed her cheek, slow and deliberate, in front of everyone.
And walked away.
From across the room, Landon watched the interaction.
For the first time since this little triangle began, he wasn't sure who was winning anymore.
And that scared him more than he expected.