The house was too quiet when Malik finally returned.
It wasn't late—not by the standards of the city, anyway. Only a little past 2 a.m. But the penthouse felt abandoned, like a place lived in only by memory and good intentions.
He hadn't gone straight home after the rooftop party.
For nearly an hour, maybe longer, he had driven the empty streets—past familiar landmarks, past the gallery he had built for Serena, past the coffee shop where she once clutched his hand under the table and laughed like no one else existed.
He wasn't sure what he was looking for.
A reason to turn back?
A reason to let go?
In the end, there was no reason at all.
Only the ache of a man trying to outrun his own home.
He slipped off his jacket and hung it neatly on the stand by the door. His shoes aligned perfectly beside the mat. The small rituals of order still mattered. Maybe because they were the only things that hadn't changed.
Serena's heels sat by the console table. Carelessly kicked off, one toppled sideways.
She was home.
A strange, unexpected relief flooded him.
For a second, Malik just stood there, hands resting on the back of a dining chair, letting himself imagine—
That she'd be curled on the couch, waiting for him with a sleepy smile.
That she'd pat the seat beside her.
That she'd say, "Sorry I left you alone tonight. I missed you."
He walked through the living room.
Empty.
Only the faint smell of perfume lingering in the air.
The bedroom door was cracked open. He pushed it gently.
Serena was sprawled across the bed, still half-dressed. Makeup smudged. One earring missing. Her phone lay on the nightstand, buzzing softly every few minutes with muted notifications.
She didn't stir.
He stepped closer, studying the quiet rise and fall of her breathing.
There, on the inside of her wrist—barely visible under the thin strap of her watch—was a smear of lipstick not her own.
He swallowed hard.
The temptation rose inside him like a violent tide.
To shake her awake.
To demand the truth she was pretending he couldn't see.
To shout. Slam doors. Throw the buzzing phone into the wall.
But he didn't.
He stood there, breathing shallowly, feeling the familiar weight of restraint press against his ribs.
Confrontation would only give her a reason to lie prettier.
No.
If the truth was going to end them, it wouldn't be on her terms.
It would be on his.
In the early hours of the morning, Malik sat in his study, alone.
Blueprints for the Darrow Towers project spread across his desk, lines and angles blurring under the weight of his exhaustion.
His phone buzzed once.
A message from Jordan:
Reminder: Southbend contract meeting moved to Monday 9 AM. Confirm?
He stared at it for a long time.
Finally, he typed back one word: Confirmed.
Work would continue. Clients would demand things. Deadlines would loom.
The world outside wouldn't care that something inside him was quietly dying.
Across the hall, Serena stirred once in her sleep, murmured something unintelligible, and shifted deeper into the covers.
He thought briefly about the afterparty she had been so excited for.
Had it not been enough?
Had she realized, too late, that the thrill she was chasing didn't exist anymore without someone chasing after her?
Or maybe she simply got bored.
Either way, she hadn't come home to him.
She had come home to her own loneliness.
And Malik realized, with a sharp, brutal clarity—
He wasn't lonely because she had left him behind.
He was lonely because he was still standing there, arms outstretched, offering something she no longer even saw.