The call came early Sunday morning, just as the city was shaking off the remnants of rain.
Malik was sitting at the breakfast bar, coffee in one hand, reviewing site plans in the other, when his phone buzzed against the marble counter.
Mom.
He stared at the screen a moment longer than necessary before answering.
"Morning, Ma."
Her voice, low and steady, filled the kitchen. "Morning, Malik."
A pause.
Then: "You sound tired."
He smiled faintly. "Long week."
Another pause, longer this time. Eleanor Graves was never one for small talk. She believed in silence as a weapon and a shield. Malik had learned both lessons well.
"I was thinking of stopping by," she said. "If you're not busy."
He hesitated. He glanced down the hallway, where Serena was still sleeping.
Or pretending to.
"No," he said. "I'm free."
Eleanor arrived an hour later, punctual as always.
She stepped into the penthouse without ceremony—wearing a long, dark gray coat, simple earrings, and her natural silver-streaked hair pulled back in a sleek bun.
She carried no bags. No gifts.
Just herself.
Malik kissed her cheek and took her coat.
She scanned the apartment with one sharp glance, taking in the immaculate surfaces, the faint scent of coffee and detergent.
And something else.
Something colder.
"Place looks clean," she said, setting her purse neatly by the couch.
"Serena's still asleep."
Eleanor arched a brow. "At noon?"
Malik smiled thinly. "Late night."
He made tea. She didn't ask for it. She simply accepted it, sitting with the kind of posture that made every room around her feel smaller.
They talked about safe things first. Business. Politics. A distant cousin's new baby.
But the real conversation hovered in the air, unspoken.
Eleanor waited until Malik sat down across from her, tea cooling between his hands, before she finally said it:
"Something's shifted."
Not a question.
A statement.
Malik met her gaze evenly. "Maybe."
Another small smile. Sadder this time. "You used to be terrible at lying."
"I've had practice."
She watched him quietly, the way a surgeon might study a patient before the first cut.
Finally, she set her tea down.
"When your father got sick," she said, voice low, "I spent two years pretending he was getting better. Every good day felt like a reason to hope. Every bad day, I buried deeper."
Malik said nothing. He remembered those years. The brittle smiles. The dinners where no one spoke about the IV bags hanging like silent witnesses in the living room.
"I thought if I worked hard enough, loved him hard enough, I could outrun it," she said. "Fix what was dying."
Her fingers tapped lightly against the porcelain cup.
"But some things," she said, looking him squarely in the eye, "aren't meant to be saved.
And sometimes... the strongest thing you can do for someone you love is walk away first."
The words hung between them, heavy as thunder.
Malik exhaled slowly.
He hadn't realized he was holding his breath.
Serena wandered into the room ten minutes later, hair still mussed from sleep, wearing a silk robe that caught the morning light.
She smiled brightly, almost too brightly.
"Mrs. Graves! I didn't know you were coming by."
Eleanor rose gracefully, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her skirt.
"Of course," she said.
Her tone was perfectly polite.
But her eyes... her eyes were ice.
They exchanged pleasantries.
Serena offered coffee Malik knew she didn't mean to pour.
Eleanor declined.
When she left, Malik walked her to the door.
She touched his arm once—lightly. A mother's touch.
"Don't waste your dignity trying to resuscitate a corpse," she said softly.
Then she was gone, heels clicking a slow, final rhythm against the marble hall.
Malik closed the door, leaning against it for a long moment.
The house behind him was filled with light and expensive silence.
Serena called from the kitchen, asking if he wanted breakfast.
He closed his eyes.
And somewhere deep inside him, Malik Graves began the slow, patient work of burying what little was left of the life he had built for them.