The café meeting hadn't been enough.
It lingered under Serena's skin like a half-remembered melody,
sharp and sweet and poisonous.
She told herself she wasn't going to see Landon again.
Told herself once was a mistake.
Told herself she was still in control.
The lies tasted bitter now, but she swallowed them anyway.
It was Landon who texted first.
I need to see you.
Really see you.
Serena ignored it.
For a day.
Maybe two.
Then, after another silent dinner with Malik,
after another sleepless night staring at the ceiling fan carving slow circles above their bed—
she answered.
Tonight.
Usual place.
The "usual place" was a rented loft above an old record shop—
a secret Serena thought she had buried deep enough.
It smelled faintly of smoke and cheap cologne and regret.
But when Landon pulled her into his arms the moment the door closed behind her,
Serena didn't pull away.
Not this time.
Not when he kissed her.
Not when his hands curled around her waist, possessive and needy.
For a few minutes, she let herself pretend.
Pretend she was still young.
Still wanted.
Still winning.
Across the street, in the shadows of a recessed doorway,
the private investigator adjusted his lens.
Click.
Click.
Another angle.
Another frame.
Serena's hands on Landon's chest.
Landon's mouth tracing along her jawline.
Clear.
Undeniable.
Evidence.
Inside the loft, Serena broke away breathlessly, guilt crashing back harder than before.
"This can't keep happening," she whispered, pressing trembling fingers to her lips.
Landon laughed softly, pulling her back against him.
"It's already happening."
Later, when Serena slipped out into the night, coat pulled tight against the wind,
the PI captured one final shot:
Serena leaning against Landon's car briefly,
his hand tangled in her hair,
their bodies pressed too close under the dim streetlights.
By the time Serena got home, the house was dark.
Malik was still awake — his study light spilling faintly into the hallway —
but he didn't come out.
Didn't ask where she had been.
Didn't even seem to care.
Serena stood outside his door for a long moment,
her hand raised halfway to knock.
But she didn't.
She couldn't.
Instead, she drifted toward their bedroom like a ghost,
trailing silence behind her.
Across the city, the PI compiled the final folder.
Timestamps.
Photos.
Affidavits of observation.
A complete file ready for delivery.
The next morning, Malik received a small envelope at his office — hand-delivered, no courier record.
He turned it over once in his hand.
Opened it.
And smiled—
a cold, clean smile—
as the first glossy photograph slid into his palm.
Serena.
Landon.
Frozen forever in betrayal.