Two days later, Serena stood in front of the mirror,
perfecting the angle of her smile.
It had to be flawless.
Not desperate.
Not fragile.
Flawless.
The winter charity gala had always been their stage —
a carefully curated evening of champagne, handshakes, and subtle power plays.
It was the perfect opportunity.
If she showed up polished, radiant, unbothered—
if she smiled just right—
if Malik saw her there, standing tall,
maybe he would remember.
Maybe he would come back.
She adjusted her diamond necklace—
the one he had given her on their second anniversary—
and checked the final look.
Breathtaking.
Perfect.
Undeniable.
At the event hall, the cameras flashed the moment she stepped onto the crimson carpet.
The press recognized her.
The socialites buzzed around her.
She waved.
She posed.
She laughed when she needed to.
From the outside, she looked untouched.
A queen still ruling her court.
Inside, the reality was sharper.
Several old sponsors weren't there.
Some of the whispers didn't die down when she passed—
they sharpened, like knives grinding quietly against stone.
Even the event coordinator, usually dripping in false flattery, greeted her with a stiff, professional nod instead of a smile.
Still, Serena smiled through it all.
She floated through the room, glass of champagne in hand,
occasionally checking the entrance over her shoulder.
Waiting.
Waiting.
He would come.
Of course he would.
He had to.
At 9:00 PM sharp, she made her move.
She climbed onto the small raised dais near the center of the ballroom, microphone in hand.
The conversations dimmed slightly, curious eyes turning toward her.
She flashed her best smile and said:
"I'd like to thank my husband, Malik Graves, for his unwavering support through everything we've built together.
Tonight wouldn't be possible without him."
Polite applause scattered across the room — thin, uncomfortable.
She scanned the crowd—
No Malik.
Not even a glimpse of his tailored suits, his steady presence.
Nothing.
Whispers filled the vacuum his absence left behind.
"He didn't come?"
"I heard—"
"The papers are already filed—"
Serena stepped off the platform slowly, her cheeks burning under the heavy chandelier light.
Someone offered her a polite nod.
Another turned away, pretending not to see her.
The gala continued — but Serena no longer floated above it.
She sank into it.
Forgotten.
When she checked her phone in the hallway,
there was no message from Malik.
No explanation.
No apology.
Only a simple legal notification from Victoria Lane's office:
Official divorce proceedings completed.
Property settlements initiated.
The glass of champagne trembled in her hand.
She placed it carefully on a passing tray before she could shatter it.
Outside, the winter wind howled against the high windows,
a feral, mocking sound.
Inside, Serena Graves—
no, just Serena Calvert again—
smiled one last time for the cameras.
Because even ruins could still be beautiful,
if you lit them just right.