The air inside the gallery was brittle after Landon's outburst.
Guests murmured in tight clusters, casting sidelong glances at Serena as she stood frozen at the podium, her hands white-knuckled around the microphone.
The music hadn't resumed.
The laughter didn't come back.
The illusion had been broken,
and no amount of champagne could glue it back together.
Serena took a shallow breath and forced a bright, brittle laugh into the microphone.
"Well, we certainly encourage... passionate artistic expression here," she said, voice trembling slightly before she caught herself.
A few scattered chuckles answered her, thin and pitying.
She pushed forward, words rushing out too fast:
"We'd like to thank all of you for your continued support of emerging art and innovation. Tonight is just the beginning of an incredible new chapter—"
But no one was really listening.
They were already checking their watches,
already making excuses to leave,
already mentally rewriting their schedules to not include her future invitations.
Serena smiled harder.
Wider.
Until it hurt.
When the speech ended, the guests filtered out with mechanical politeness.
A few offered weak congratulations.
Some left business cards without real promises.
Most simply vanished into the cool night air.
Malik stayed by the bar, watching it all.
He accepted another drink from a passing waiter.
He watched Serena's eyes dart desperately around the room, looking for someone — anyone — who still believed the fantasy she had built.
She caught his gaze once across the thinning crowd.
She smiled — that tight, bright smile she always used when things weren't going her way.
Malik lifted his glass slightly in a silent toast.
Not in comfort.
Not in solidarity.
In farewell.
By the time the gallery emptied out completely, Serena was trembling with exhaustion and rage beneath her polished exterior.
Her PR manager hovered nearby, whispering frantic strategies:
"We'll call it a misunderstanding.
Maybe spin it as a disgruntled former artist.
We'll put out a statement — control the narrative."
Serena nodded mechanically, mind racing.
She could fix this.
She always fixed things.
Didn't she?
Later that night, after slipping out of the gallery without ceremony, Malik drove through the sleeping city streets.
No music.
No distractions.
Only the low hum of the tires against asphalt and the rhythmic beat of inevitability.
He pulled into a small parking lot overlooking the water, the city lights fractured in the river below.
He scrolled through his phone until he found the number Victoria had given him months ago,
just in case he ever needed private confirmation.
He hadn't used it then.
He hadn't needed it.
Until now.
Malik pressed dial.
It rang once.
Twice.
A calm voice answered.
"Private Investigations. How can we help you?"
Malik leaned back against the headrest, voice steady.
"I need verification," he said simply.
"And I want it done quietly."
Across the river, the city glittered —
a thousand false stars flickering against the dark.
And somewhere beyond those lights,
Serena Calvert-Graves was still stitching her perfect mask together,
still smiling,
still lying—
unaware that the countdown had already begun.