Serena's reflection smiled back at her in the mirror.
Perfect.
Controlled.
Unbreakable.
At least from a distance.
Up close, she wasn't so sure anymore.
She had spent the morning on the phone — not begging,
not yet —
but the line between business and desperation was blurring fast.
She spoke in bright, confident tones.
Spun promises about new gallery expansions,
new exhibits,
new money.
Most of the old sponsors responded politely.
Some didn't respond at all.
The few who did offered hollow encouragement—
"We're exploring other opportunities this quarter."
"So sorry, Serena — my hands are tied."
"Of course, we wish you the best."
Polite poison.
Not no —
but certainly not yes.
Not anymore.
By late afternoon, she realized she was calling in favors that no longer existed.
The Calvert name —
the great, untouchable Calvert lineage —
carried less weight now than she remembered.
Whispers of old debts, bad investments, slipping influence.
Behind the smiles and polite nods,
Serena could feel it:
They didn't need her.
And worse—
They didn't fear her.
She tried another angle.
A private lunch invite to the Wringer family, old friends through her father.
When she arrived at the restaurant,
they smiled brightly, shook her hand warmly—
and left after fifteen minutes citing a "scheduling conflict."
Serena sat alone,
the remains of an untouched wine glass sweating onto white linen.
When she finally retreated to the penthouse that evening,
the silence felt heavier than it had days ago.
She scrolled mindlessly through news feeds,
searching for a foothold.
Anything.
A hint of scandal about Malik.
A rumor of business failure.
A whispered fall from grace.
There was nothing.
Only a quiet profile of one of his investment firms breaking ground on a new luxury project downtown.
"Graves Holdings continues steady growth under Malik Graves' leadership,"
the article said,
without flair, without gossip,
with the kind of respect that couldn't be bought overnight.
Serena tossed her phone onto the couch,
sickened by the clean efficiency of it.
Malik wasn't fighting her.
He wasn't dragging her name through mud.
He wasn't even acknowledging her existence.
He had simply erased her.
Her mind drifted — unwillingly — toward Landon.
Landon, who was always eager, always ready with promises of "we'll show them,"
"you deserve better,"
"stick with me."
She remembered his voice from those hotel hallways,
hushed and excited,
telling her she was wasted on Malik's cold ambition.
Telling her she could have more.
But now, stripped of the shine Malik's name gave her,
Serena wasn't sure Landon could offer her more than noise and late-night phone calls anymore.
He was flash without roots.
Charm without foundation.
A lifeboat made of paper.
Still.
Still.
It was something.
And right now, Serena Calvert had almost nothing left.
She picked up her phone again,
hovered over his contact.
Her finger trembled slightly before she pressed "Call."
The line rang three times before Landon answered, voice low and uncertain.
"Serena?"
She closed her eyes.
Gathered the last shreds of pride she had.
"We need to talk," she said.
"Tonight."