The invitation had arrived late Friday evening, tucked between a stack of Serena's gallery correspondence.
A new artist showcase—exclusive, invite-only, hosted at one of the trendiest rooftop lounges in the city. Serena's name was printed elegantly under the "Curated By" section.
He hadn't known she was curating anything new.
He hadn't known she was curating anything without him.
Still, when she smiled brightly over coffee that morning and said, "Come with me tonight. It'll be good for both of us to be seen," he agreed without hesitation.
He told himself it was progress. A sign she still wanted him by her side.
The rooftop was alive with soft jazz, glittering cocktails, and the smell of expensive perfume.
Under strings of gold fairy lights, Serena moved through the crowd like water—smiling, laughing, her hand brushing shoulders, her voice lilting just enough to make everyone lean in.
Malik followed half a step behind, clutching a glass of something he barely tasted.
She didn't introduce him.
Not once.
Not to the investors, or the artists, or the old friends she kissed on the cheeks. When people glanced his way, Serena would just smile vaguely and continue talking, as if he were part of the furniture.
At one point, she laughed at a joke he didn't hear, gripping Landon's forearm too tightly, too familiarly.
The glass in Malik's hand sweated against his palm.
He set it down on a tray without drinking it.
An hour in, Serena disappeared toward the bar, deep in conversation with two gallery executives. Malik stood alone near a balcony railing, the city stretching out below him in dazzling, indifferent lights.
Someone he vaguely recognized—a partner from a tech firm he once helped consult—approached him, drink in hand.
"Malik Graves, right? Thought that was you."
Malik nodded. Shook his hand.
The man smiled. "You still with that architect group? What's it called... Sterling?"
"No," Malik said calmly. "Started my own firm two years ago."
The man blinked. "Huh. Must've missed that. Thought you were doing the gallery thing full-time with your wife."
A pause.
Malik smiled politely. "Not exactly."
"Well, either way," the man said, already glancing over Malik's shoulder toward Serena, "lucky you. She's something."
Malik's smile stayed in place until the man drifted away.
Lucky.
He turned back to the city, the chill in the air sharper now, biting through the thin material of his jacket.
Later, Serena found him, cheeks flushed from wine and laughter.
"Hey," she said breathlessly. "I think we should stay a little longer. There's an afterparty at Marlowe's. You in?"
Her hand rested lightly on his forearm. Not possessive. Not affectionate.
Just... resting. Like he was an anchor she wasn't sure she still needed.
He nodded once. "You go ahead. I've got an early meeting tomorrow."
Serena's face flickered with something—relief, maybe. Or simple distraction.
"You're the best," she said, pressing a kiss to his cheek.
Then she was gone, heels clicking against the marble, swallowed by the golden crowd.
Malik stayed for a few more minutes, watching the door she'd disappeared through.
When he finally left, the city had grown colder. The streets seemed harder.
And in the place where love used to live inside him, only a chair sat empty, gathering dust.