Chapter 1
The sound of rain tapping against glass used to calm Malik Graves. But tonight, it filled the penthouse with an uneasy rhythm, like fingers drumming a warning on his nerves.
The apartment was spotless, of course. It always was. He kept everything symmetrical; pillows aligned, glassware stacked perfectly, books sorted not by genre or title but by height. The order grounded him. It gave his thoughts corners to sit in.
He stood barefoot by the floor-to-ceiling windows, a glass of bourbon in one hand, the city sprawled beneath him like one of his blueprints—cold, brilliant, distant.
Serena was late. Again.
He checked the time but didn't sigh. Sighing was wasted energy. She hadn't texted, hadn't called. But he knew she'd show. Eventually. With some excuse woven between kisses and silk perfume.
Not that he minded silence. Silence was honest.
The glass in his hand caught the reflection of a small object on the counter. A silver envelope. Matte, unmarked, folded clean. It had arrived that morning, hand-delivered, no return address. He hadn't opened it. Not out of fear, but restraint. If it mattered, it would wait. If it didn't, it wouldn't matter.
But now, standing in the hollow echo of a marriage long burned out, Malik crossed the room, set his bourbon down, and sliced the envelope open with the corner of a letter opener.
Inside: a single USB drive. Unlabeled.
He turned it in his fingers. Still no message, no sender.
A soft click of the lock.
The front door creaked open. Serena's heels tapped delicately across the marble floor.
"Malik?" she called softly, her voice sweet like poured syrup. "You're still up?"
He didn't answer. He plugged the USB into his laptop and sat at the dining table, back straight, breathing even. Serena padded closer, her heels kicked off somewhere in the hall, the faint smell of rosewater clinging to her skin.
"I tried to call. I had an emergency board dinner," she said. "One of our Paris sponsors was in town unexpectedly. You know how it is."
He clicked open the folder.
Four videos. No labels.
"Sure," he said, not looking at her.
She leaned against the doorway to the kitchen, her wine-colored coat sliding off her shoulders like melted wax. Her hair was slightly tousled, lips stained with the same shade she always wore to gallery openings.
He clicked on the first video.
It took a moment to load. Then: the soft rustle of laughter. The camera was shaky but clear enough to capture Serena's face—glowing, unguarded. She was in the courtyard of the Sinclair Hotel, arm in arm with a man Malik had seen before. Briefly. A "partner" from her out-of-town exhibits. Landon.
They weren't talking business.
He paused the video.
Serena moved toward him, brow furrowed.
"Everything okay?"
He turned to her. Studied her for a moment. The slight blush in her cheeks—not makeup. The faint crease in her blouse—not from sitting at a dinner table.
"You smell like red wine," he said.
Serena blinked. "I... yes. There was a toast. Malik, are you—"
He clicked on the second video.
Hotel hallway. She was kissing him this time. Landon. Fingers in his hair. Her laugh, breathless.
"Stop," she said suddenly.
Malik closed the laptop calmly.
Serena stood frozen, the fake warmth on her face finally cracking.
"Where did you get that?" Her voice was quieter now. Flat.
He didn't answer. Instead, he stood and walked past her toward the hall closet.
"Malik—this isn't what it looks like."
"Doesn't matter what it looks like," he said without turning. "Only matters what it is."
She followed him. "You're blowing this out of proportion. Landon and I are close, but it's always been professional."
"You were holding his tie in your teeth." He opened the closet and pulled out his coat.
Serena's mouth opened, then closed.
"This is why you've been working late?" he asked.
"I was protecting you," she said quickly. "You don't understand how brutal the art world is. Landon—he has connections, sponsors. I had to play nice."
Malik laughed. Not loudly. Just enough to scare her.
"I built that gallery," he said. "The foundation it stands on, the name on the side, the contracts, the design—every brick you walk past. I didn't ask you for protection. You don't get to lie to my face and tell me it's a favor."
Serena stepped toward him, grabbing his sleeve. "Wait. Malik, we can work through this. We've been through worse. You remember when the zoning board—"
He pulled away.
"It's handled," he said.
"What?"
He handed her a leather-bound folder from the cabinet beside the door. "Signatures. Legal. You signed half of it two weeks ago, when I told you it was a licensing update. It wasn't."
She stared down at the folder. Slowly opening it. Her face drained of color.
"You—" she looked up, breath catching. "You forged—"
"No," he cut in. "You just didn't read."
Her hands trembled. "You're divorcing me."
"I already did."
She staggered back a step. "This isn't real."
Malik stepped into his coat. Buttoned it slowly. "You still own your name. The gallery's mine. So is the loft above it. You'll receive the transfer details tomorrow. Keep your car. Sell it. I don't care."
Serena shook her head, whispering something to herself, something small and venomous.
He walked to the door, opened it.
"I did everything for us," she hissed behind him. "You're nothing without me."
He paused.
Then turned back, looked her dead in the eye, and said, "You should've watched your angles, Serena. You always said the camera tells the truth."
And then he walked into the storm.