The penthouse was too large without Malik in it.
Every sound—
the ticking of the old clock,
the soft hum of the refrigerator—
stretched out into the silence like claws scraping glass.
Serena sat on the edge of the grand sectional,
the city sprawled beyond the windows like a thing she used to own
and now only borrowed.
She called Malik again.
Straight to voicemail.
She tried the number for Jordan, Malik's longtime assistant.
Disconnected.
She sent a message to Victoria Lane's office.
Out of office reply.
Panic itched at the edges of her mind,
but she smothered it.
Panic was weakness.
Panic was how you lost.
And Serena Calvert didn't lose.
She pivoted.
She adapted.
She survived.
She scrolled through her contacts.
Names that once lined up like soldiers on parade—
investors, gallery partners, patrons, magazine editors.
She called three.
Two didn't answer.
The third responded with a clipped, professional message:
"I'm afraid we're re-evaluating our sponsorships for the coming year. Thank you for understanding."
Understanding.
Like she was already past tense.
Like she was a polite inconvenience.
Serena stood, pacing the length of the cold marble floor.
Her reflection caught in the towering windows —
a woman too thin,
too tense,
too haunted to be the queen she had been six months ago.
She grabbed a fresh glass of wine—
red, heavy—
and downed it in one long, ungraceful gulp.
The thought crept in uninvited.
Landon.
She hadn't spoken to him since—
Since the night Malik walked out.
Since the world started pulling itself away from her like a tide receding from rotting wood.
Landon.
He would answer.
He always answered.
He was reckless and stupid,
but he adored her.
Didn't he?
Serena set down the empty glass a little too hard,
the sound snapping across the empty kitchen like a gunshot.
No.
Not yet.
Not him.
Not yet.
There were still options.
There had to be.
There always were.
But even as she told herself that,
her hand drifted toward her phone again.
Hovering over his name.
Over the old text threads still filled with whispered promises and stolen moments.
The screen seemed to breathe under her fingers.
Alive.
Waiting.
The night thickened around her.
Heavy.
Suffocating.
The penthouse she fought so hard to keep felt like it was shrinking,
pressing against her ribs,
pushing all the air out of her chest.
Somewhere across the city,
Malik Graves probably slept without dreaming.
Without remembering.
Without her.
Serena curled her fingers into a fist and turned the phone facedown on the counter.
Not yet.
But soon.
If Malik wouldn't save her—
Maybe someone else still could.