The Monday after the gala, Serena was still high on success.
She hosted an early brunch at the gallery for select investors—fresh flowers, pastries flown in from Paris, bottles of chilled rosé lining the tables like trophies.
The city's gossip columns had already started publishing:
Celina Vaurin's Breakout Night: Sponsored by the Indomitable Serena Graves.
Photographs of Serena and Malik graced the society pages — polished, glittering, flawless.
Everything Serena had worked for was finally blooming.
Or so she thought.
Malik spent the morning elsewhere.
In a glass office high above the city, overlooking the distant gallery like a chess master studying a board.
Victoria Lane sat across from him, another neat folder open on the polished desk.
"No direct moves against her yet," she said, tapping her pen thoughtfully, "but we can start freezing joint-access funds.
Restructure your silent partnerships.
Make sure the newer properties fall solely under your holding companies."
Malik nodded once.
He wasn't interested in stripping Serena bare all at once.
That was too obvious.
Too easy.
He wanted her to feel it.
Slowly.
The way a ship takes on water long before it notices it's sinking.
By the time Serena raised her glass at brunch, toasting Celina's future, the first crack had already formed beneath her feet.
It was subtle at first.
A minor sponsor — the Pembroke Foundation — pulled out of a promised donation to her upcoming summer exhibition.
No explanation given.
Just a polite email about "reassessing priorities."
Serena frowned at her phone after reading it.
Annoyed, not worried.
She brushed it off easily when one of her friends asked why she looked distracted.
"Nothing serious," she said, laughing lightly.
"People are fickle. It's the art world."
But the Pembroke Foundation wasn't fickle.
They were cautious.
And Malik had made a quiet call, through a third party, whispering doubts into the right ears at just the right time.
Not accusations.
Not scandals.
Just... questions.
Enough to make conservative money think twice before tying itself too tightly to Serena's brand.
At dinner that night, Serena gushed about potential new sponsorships, upcoming interviews, maybe even a TED talk about "the intersection of business and creative mentorship."
Malik smiled across the table, sipping his wine.
He asked about seating charts and press packets.
He complimented her ambition.
He nodded at all the right moments.
And all the while—
He imagined the careful threads holding up Serena's glittering tapestry fraying, one by one,
until it all collapsed into dust at her feet.
Not today.
Not tomorrow.
But soon.
Very soon.