The rain beat against the windows like it was trying to claw its way inside.
Malik sat at the dining table, the laptop open in front of him, the USB still plugged in.
The screen showed a paused frame — Serena's smiling face pressed close to Landon's, the two of them lit by the sickly gold of a hotel hallway light.
He didn't touch the screen.
Didn't need to.
He had seen enough.
He was simply waiting now.
The soft click of the front door lock broke the silence.
He didn't move.
He didn't speak.
He simply sat there, steady as stone, as Serena's heels clicked across the marble floor.
"Malik?" she called sweetly, syrup layered over panic.
She kicked off her shoes somewhere in the hallway, padded closer barefoot.
The scent of rain and expensive rosewater wrapped around her as she entered the dining area, clutching her purse loosely.
"You're still up?"
He said nothing.
Just clicked play.
The video resumed.
Serena's laugh filled the room — higher, realer than anything she had given Malik in months.
Onscreen, Landon kissed her neck, his hand disappearing under her coat.
The sound of it—the familiarity, the intimacy—made something hollow ring deep inside the penthouse walls.
Serena froze.
All the false warmth evaporated from her face.
Her eyes flicked to the screen, widening.
"Malik..." she started, stepping forward. "That's not— I can explain."
He didn't even look at her.
He clicked on the second video.
Them.
Again.
A different day.
A different lie.
Serena dragging Landon into a private elevator, his hands greedy at her waist.
Her laughter — the same she once reserved for Malik — now given freely to someone else.
"Turn it off," she whispered, voice cracking.
Malik closed the laptop with a soft, final click.
He stood, moving slowly, calmly.
She flinched as he approached, as if she could already feel the verdict in the air.
"Where did you get that?" she demanded, voice brittle.
He met her gaze for the first time that night—
cold, detached, tired.
"It doesn't matter," he said.
"Only matters that it's real."
Serena's hands trembled at her sides.
"Malik, listen— Landon and I— it was strategy. Politics. You know how the art world works—"
"You were holding his tie in your mouth," Malik said quietly.
"That's a new kind of diplomacy."
She reached out for him, desperate now.
"We can fix this," she pleaded.
"You and me. We've survived worse, remember? The zoning board? The first gallery sabotage? We always fight—"
Malik moved past her.
Calm.
Precise.
He opened the side cabinet near the entryway and pulled out a leather-bound folder.
He held it out to her, the weight of it dragging her hand down when she took it.
"What's this?" she whispered.
"You signed half of it two weeks ago," he said.
"Thought you were finalizing tender documents."
She opened it.
Read the first page.
Her knees almost buckled.
"You—" she gasped. "You forged—"
"No," Malik said.
"You just didn't read."
Serena shook her head violently, like that could erase the ink already drying on legal paper.
"You're divorcing me," she choked out.
"I already did," Malik said simply.
He stepped past her, pulling his coat from the hook.
Serena followed him in a daze, the folder clutched against her chest like a broken shield.
"This isn't happening," she hissed. "You're making a mistake. Everything we built—"
"I built it," Malik said without turning.
"You used it."
He opened the door to the storm, the cold wind snapping at the edges of the room.
Behind him, Serena's voice cracked in desperation.
"I did everything for us!" she screamed.
"You're nothing without me!"
Malik paused in the doorway.
Looked back once —
just once —
and met her wild, breaking eyes.
"You should've watched your angles, Serena," he said, voice low and final.
"You always said the camera tells the truth."
Then he stepped into the storm,
leaving her in a house built on lies,
with nothing but her painted ruins for company.