The invitation had come as a summons, not a request.
No "dear."
No "we miss you."
Just a terse text from Dolores:
Sunday. Three o'clock. No excuses.
Serena arrived at the Calvert estate fifteen minutes early,
clutching a designer handbag that suddenly felt too heavy.
The house was exactly as she remembered —
grand, cold, perfect.
The floors gleamed.
The windows shone.
The air smelled faintly of lemon polish and old money.
Nothing had changed.
Except maybe her.
She was ushered into the small parlor.
Not the main salon —
the smaller, colder room where family mistakes were corrected in private.
The butler barely met her eyes as he opened the door.
Inside, her parents sat across from each other like opposing generals.
Mr. Calvert barely looked up from his scotch.
Dolores, however, was all sharp eyes and sharper posture.
Waiting.
Weighing.
Judging.
"Sit," Dolores said without preamble.
Serena obeyed, smoothing the front of her dress with hands that didn't feel entirely steady.
There was a long, heavy silence.
Finally, Mr. Calvert spoke without looking at her:
"You're embarrassing us."
The words landed with the force of a slap,
sharp and cold and public,
even though there were no witnesses here but the ancestral paintings.
Serena opened her mouth,
some instinct to defend herself flaring up.
Dolores cut her off with a raised hand.
"First Malik," she said crisply.
"Now parading around with that... street rat."
Landon.
They wouldn't even dignify him with a name.
"We gave you every advantage," Dolores continued.
"Every connection. Every introduction. Every opportunity."
Serena's throat burned.
She forced herself to meet her mother's icy gaze.
"I built the gallery," she said quietly.
"I made it successful."
Dolores's lips curved in a smile that wasn't a smile.
"You decorated it, Serena.
Malik built it."
Another silence.
Heavier this time.
Mr. Calvert drained his glass and finally looked at her.
"You have two choices," he said, voice like cracked marble.
"Fix your reputation.
End your... entanglement.
Rebuild what you lost."
He leaned forward slightly, enough for Serena to catch the faint scent of expensive cologne.
"Or find your own way.
Without the Calvert name.
Without our support."
Serena's hands curled tightly in her lap.
"You would cut me off?" she whispered.
Her voice cracked against the cold walls.
Her mother tilted her head slightly.
"We don't cut off family, dear.
Family cuts themselves off when they make themselves unsalvageable."
The finality of it vibrated in the room.
Unspoken.
Unbreakable.
Serena stood on unsteady legs.
No hug.
No goodbye.
Just the hollow clink of ice in crystal glasses as her parents turned back toward the fire,
already dismissing her from their world.
She walked out of the parlor,
heels silent against the endless marble floor,
and out into the brittle winter air.
The Calvert estate door shut behind her with a soft, final click.
Like a tomb sealing.