The gallery smelled the same.
Fresh paint.
Coffee brewing somewhere behind the front desk.
The faint, sharp tang of new art hanging under bright white lights.
Serena smoothed her coat and stepped through the glass doors,
heels clicking sharply against the polished floor.
Heads turned.
Faces she knew.
Faces that had once rushed to greet her,
whispered her name with admiration.
Now —
stiff nods.
Polite smiles.
Distance.
The receptionist — a new girl Serena didn't recognize —
looked up from her computer, forcing a tight smile.
"Good morning, Ms. Calvert.
How can I help you?"
Ms. Calvert.
Not Mrs. Graves.
The correction was surgical.
Precise.
"I'm here to check on the new installation proposals," Serena said smoothly,
adjusting the strap of her bag over one shoulder.
"I want to sit in on the selection meeting."
The receptionist faltered, glancing toward a closed office door.
"One moment."
Serena waited, arms folded loosely,
trying not to feel the eyes on her back.
Trying not to notice how conversations picked back up
—but quieter,
more cautious.
Like she was a guest.
An inconvenience.
Not part of this place anymore.
The gallery manager emerged a few moments later —
Anthony Rhodes.
A man who once called her "the heart of the gallery" after too many glasses of champagne.
Today, he wore a crisp gray suit and a professional smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Serena," he said warmly — too warmly.
"Good to see you."
"I'd like to join the meeting," she said again, steady.
"I'm still—"
Anthony held up a hand gently.
"I'm sorry.
You're not listed on the ownership documents anymore."
The words sliced clean.
Serena blinked.
"That's not possible," she said, voice still low, still composed.
"I co-founded this place."
Anthony nodded sympathetically — the way you nod at a child who doesn't understand why the game is over.
"After the legal settlement was finalized..."
"Ownership transferred fully to Graves Holdings."
He didn't say Malik's name.
Didn't need to.
Serena's fingers tightened around the leather strap of her bag.
"This is still my gallery," she said —
not loud, but with all the fury of a dying star.
Anthony's smile didn't change.
"You're, of course, always welcome as a guest," he said.
"But you no longer have decision-making authority here."
Guest.
The word burned hotter than anything else.
Behind Anthony, the new assistant — fresh-faced, efficient —
began escorting the morning's investors into the conference room.
They didn't even glance at Serena as they passed.
As if she was part of the furniture.
Or worse—
invisible.
Anthony stepped aside politely.
Waiting for her to leave.
Serena stood there a moment longer,
every cell in her body screaming to stay, to fight, to scream.
But there was nothing left to fight for.
The papers had been signed.
The door had closed.
The world had moved on.
She turned without a word,
walking slowly back toward the gleaming glass entrance.
The receptionist offered her another tight, polite smile as she passed.
Outside, the city roared around her.
Alive.
Hungry.
Unbothered.
Serena clutched the strap of her bag tighter,
walking nowhere in particular.
There was no gallery.
No marriage.
No empire.
No home.
Only the hollow sound of her own heels against cold concrete,
fading into a city that had already forgotten her name.