The restaurant was bright, all glass walls and white linen.
Perfect for visibility.
Perfect for optics.
Serena had handpicked the guest list.
Sponsors.
Editors.
Curators.
A few mid-tier investors with long memories and short loyalties.
Today was about reminding them —
reminding everyone —
that she was still here.
Still standing.
Still powerful.
She wore ivory silk and gold earrings.
Her hair was swept back into a clean knot.
Every detail screamed polish, control, perfection.
Except Landon wasn't here.
The first fifteen minutes passed with polite conversation and strained smiles.
Serena checked her phone under the table once.
Then again.
No message.
No apology.
Just the creeping heat of humiliation climbing up her spine.
Finally —
twenty minutes late —
Landon strolled in.
No jacket.
Shirt rumpled.
Eyes slightly bloodshot from whatever afterparty he hadn't bothered telling her about.
He kissed her cheek sloppily —
too loud, too lingering —
drawing a few raised eyebrows from the table.
"Hey, gorgeous," he said, flopping into the seat beside her and waving for a drink.
Not water.
Not coffee.
Whiskey.
At 11:30 in the morning.
The conversation faltered.
Polite smiles stiffened.
One of the editors leaned toward the curator Serena had been courting —
whispering something behind a raised hand.
The curator's eyes flicked to Serena,
then slid away quickly, like she was contagious.
Serena forced her lips into a smile.
Laughed too loudly at Landon's lazy jokes.
Clinked glasses.
Talked about future projects she wasn't sure she could still fund.
She pretended so hard she almost convinced herself.
Almost.
When the brunch mercifully ended,
guests filtering out with polite excuses and tight smiles,
Serena stayed seated,
staring at the half-empty mimosa in front of her.
Landon slouched back in his chair, checking his phone.
"That wasn't so bad," he said cheerfully.
Serena stared at him.
At the crumpled collar.
At the scuffed shoes.
At the boy she had mistaken for a man who could save her.
The urge to scream, to claw the air, to smash the glass in her hand into glittering shards —
it clawed at her throat.
But she smiled instead.
Because that's what she did.
Smile.
Pose.
Survive.
"Not so bad," she repeated softly, lifting her glass in a toast to no one.
The bitterness tasted better than the champagne.
Behind her, a server cleared a plate.
She heard two waiters whispering as they passed:
"That's Serena Calvert, right?"
"Used to be Graves."
"Yeah. Heard she's with that guy now.
Pity."
Serena closed her eyes for one long moment.
Then she stood, straightened her dress,
and walked out into the blinding sun,
the porcelain mask cracking silently with every step.