Chloe #2
He nods, following me as I lead him downstairs.
As we descend, the house’s airy, modern design gives way to the more intimate atmosphere of the basement.
The plush carpet beneath our feet softens our footsteps, and the rich, dark wood paneling on the walls is a striking contrast to the clean minimalism of the rest of the house.
The home theater feels like a hidden retreat, a place where the outside world falls away and it’s just the two of us.
I gesture to one of the sleek leather seats, and Tristan sinks into it, shooting me another look that seems to ask, What’s this all about?
I reach into my pocket, my fingers brushing against the small flash drive I brought with me.
“You asked about my work,” I say. “I… I wanted to show you.”
It’s a piece of my past that I’ve kept tucked away, hesitant to revisit, but Tristan leans forward with such open eagerness that I feel better about the idea of letting him see it.
“When did you make this one?” he asks.
“Actually, it was after I went to business school.” The words stick in my throat. This is the last film I ever made. My parents’ expectations had already ensnared me. This was the final flare of my defiance, the last spark of creativity I had left in me.
It’s one of my best, but it’s also the hardest to look back on.
Tristan seems to sense my hesitation. His expression softens, the intensity in his eyes shifting to something more gentle. “This was after?”
I nod. “Yeah. I knew it was over after this. My parents were already pushing me to take over responsibilities at MediaSphere. Film school was just a rebellious phase in their eyes—something I needed to get out of my system before I took on the ‘real’ work. Business school was the nail in the coffin.”
He’s silent, absorbing my words. Then his hand reaches out to rest on mine. “I’d love to see it, if you want.”
I hesitate, fingers tightening around the flash drive. Part of me wants to hide this piece of myself again, to push it back into the past where it’s safe. But there’s something in the way Tristan is looking at me—open, unguarded, like he’s willing to see whatever I’m afraid to show him.
Without another word, I move to the media console and plug in the drive, the faint hum of the projector kicking to life behind us. As the screen flickers, I glance over at Tristan, who has settled back into the seat, his eyes fixed on me instead of the screen, waiting.
I take a deep breath and press play.
The film starts, and I take the seat next to Tristan’s, curling my feet up onto the cushion as nerves run through me.
It’s a short film I made in my free time between classes at Wharton, about fifteen minutes long.
In it, a locksmith gets called out late at night to help a woman who’s locked herself out of her own apartment.
Over the time it takes him to get the door open, viewers are slowly led to realize that the woman hasn’t been locked out by accident—she’s working up the nerve to go back inside, although what terrifies her so much about the building is left a mystery.
I was experimenting with a lot of things at the time: long takes, natural light, letting moments breathe instead of cutting away from them. Now that I’ve got some distance from it, I can see a thousand things I’d do differently. It’s a little earnest and overwrought in places. But still, it’s mine.
I can barely sit still, my stomach in knots as I share this piece of my past with him. I haven’t shown this film to anyone in years. It feels too close, too much like handing him my damn diary and asking him to read it in front of me.
When the screen finally fades to black, the room goes quiet.
“It’s… it’s not that long,” I say, almost apologetically. “I didn’t have much to work with at the time, and—”
“It was beautiful.”
I let out a breath, my heart pounding in my chest. “Thank you,” I murmur, almost shaky with relief. “It’s very personal to me. I wasn’t sure how you’d react.”
“It was phenomenal. I’ve been around this industry for a long time, and that… Chloe, you’re amazingly talented.”
His words wrap around me, easing the tightness in my chest. “It was a hard time in my life, but making this helped me process a lot of what I went through.”
At that, there’s a glint of curiosity in his eyes, but he doesn’t pry. Instead, he just says, “I loved it, truly. The cinematography was beautiful, and the editing? You have a real eye for filmmaking.”
A flush creeps across my face. I haven’t had that kind of praise or affirmation from anyone close to me. My parents never wanted me to pursue directing, so they never expressed interest or praised me for any of my work. Hearing it now, from Tristan, is overwhelming.
“Well… I was young and inexperienced.” I wave a hand, trying to keep my voice light. “It could’ve been better. There were so many mistakes, things I’d do differently now.”
Before I can continue down the familiar path of self-doubt, Tristan stops me, his hand gently cupping my chin and turning my face toward his.
“Don’t do that,” he says, shaking his head. “It was amazing. You’re amazing.”
I blink rapidly. For the first time in what feels like forever, I feel seen.
Truly seen. Not for my business acumen or for how well I can meet the expectations everyone has of me, but for something deeper—for the part of me I’ve hidden away for so long, the part that still yearns to create, to express, to be free.
My heart races as I take in his face, so earnest and full of pride, and when he leans in, I don’t pull away.
His lips brush against mine in a tender kiss, and I kiss him back, my emotions churning in a confusing, intoxicating mix.
When he pulls back, I meet his eyes again, but this time it’s harder to hold his gaze.
Because the truth is crashing into me with a force I wasn’t ready for.
I’m starting to have feelings for him. Real feelings.
Not just the comfortable affection we’ve built over time, not just the quiet companionship that’s developed between us in the wake of our arranged marriage. This is something deeper, something that makes my chest tighten and my breath catch every time he looks at me.
Every instinct I’ve built over the years tells me to protect myself, to guard my heart, to keep my walls up. This was never supposed to be more than a business arrangement—a partnership built on convenience, not love.
But Tristan isn’t just a business partner in this arrangement anymore. He’s become someone I trust, someone who sees me in a way no one else has.
I’m starting to fall for my husband.
And I don’t know what to do with that.