My Movie Star Husband's Neglected Wife

1. Selene

— ? —

Selene

His rough hands press firmly into my lower back, and I put on my fiercest face for the camera while ignoring the swirling heat pooling low in my stomach.

Dylan pulls me flush against his chest, his fingers splaying possessively across the thin silk of my dress.

The fabric might as well not exist. I can feel every ridge of his palm, every callus earned from years of gripping camera rigs and blocking scenes until three in the morning.

He traces the curve of my neck with his nose, and I have to remind myself that we’re working right now, that there are fourteen crew members watching us pretend to be the perfect couple we actually are.

The click of the camera breaks the utter silence inside the studio.

“That’s a wrap!” Enzo, our photographer, claps his hands together with the enthusiasm of a man who knows he just captured gold. “Three years in a row and you two are still the face of the industry. The chemistry is unreal.”

Dylan doesn’t release me immediately.

Instead, he smiles at the crew, that devastating grin that landed him on the cover of every entertainment magazine before he turned twenty-five, and drags me even closer to his chest. I can feel his heartbeat against my shoulder blade, steady and sure, while mine trips over itself trying to keep up.

“Can you blame me?” Dylan’s voice rumbles through his chest and into my spine. “Have you seen my wife?”

The crew laughs, charmed as always. Dylan has that effect on people. He walks into a room and everyone orbits toward him as if he’s the sun and they’re just planets desperate for warmth.

He dips his head, his dark eyes boring into mine, and steals a slow, possessive kiss right there in front of everyone. The crew swoons audibly, and I hear dozens of phone cameras clicking, capturing the moment for Instagram stories and gossip blogs.

Hollywood’s Golden Couple Still Going Strong After Seven Years.

I can already see the headlines.

When Dylan finally pulls back, his thumb traces my jaw like I’m a precious jewel. “You were incredible today, baby.”

“I just stood there.” I keep my voice light, teasing. “You did all the work.”

“Standing there looking like that is its own kind of work.” He presses one more kiss to my forehead before finally releasing me, and the absence of his warmth hits me harder than it should.

I watch him walk toward Enzo to review the shots, his hand lifting in easy greeting as crew members intercept him with questions and compliments.

He moves through the room like he owns it, because in many ways, he does.

Dylan Riego, the youngest actor-director in Hollywood history.

The man who turned his debut film into a cultural phenomenon and never looked back.

And me? I’m his wife. The woman standing next to him in every photograph, smiling like my jaw doesn’t ache from holding the expression.

“Mrs. Riego?” A production assistant appears at my elbow, young and eager. “Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

She hovers for a moment, clearly wanting to say something else. I’ve been in this industry long enough to recognize the look of someone working up the courage to ask for a favor.

“Was there anything else?”

“I just wanted to say,” she rushes out, “that you’re the reason I moved to LA. I watched every single one of your films growing up. Midnight in Madrid made me want to be a producer.”

The compliment lands somewhere soft and bruised inside my chest. Midnight in Madrid. That was eight years ago, back when I was still making films instead of just appearing in photographs beside my husband.

“That means a lot.” I touch her arm briefly. “What’s your name?”

“Jessie.”

“Keep pushing, Jessie. This industry will try to put you in a box every chance it gets. Don’t let it.”

She beams at me like I’ve given her something valuable, and I have to look away before she sees whatever expression is trying to crawl across my face.

A strong pair of arms finds its way to my waist as Dylan’s breath fans across my nape. “Baby, we still have to attend tonight’s gala. Let’s go.”

The high shatters the next afternoon.

I wake up alone in our vast, monotone Hollywood Hills estate, afternoon light slicing through the automated blinds that I never programmed to my preferences.

The sheets beside me are cold and smooth, perfectly made by housekeeping while I slept, all evidence of Dylan’s presence erased like he was never there at all.

My phone shows seventeen notifications. I scroll through them while still horizontal, too tired to lift my head from the pillow.

Instagram tags. Twitter mentions. A text from my publicist with a fire emoji and the words killing it as always. Screenshots of viral photos from last night’s event, images of Dylan and me looking like everything everyone wants to believe we are.

@EntertainmentWeekly: Power couple Dylan and Selene Riego prove that Hollywood romance isn’t dead. Seven years and still serving HEAT. ??

@FilmTwitterDaily: The way he looks at her??? I need someone to look at me like Dylan Riego looks at his wife.

@PopCultureMoments: Selene Riego in custom Valentino at last night’s industry gala. We are not worthy.

Tapping through to the photos and studying them feels like I’m examining someone else’s life.

There we are, glammed up and glowing, Dylan’s arm wrapped around my waist while I beam at him with pure adoration.

In one shot, he’s whispering in my ear and I’m laughing, my head thrown back in genuine delight.

My mind tries to remember what he said that made me laugh like that.

I can’t.

Sitting up, I let the silk sheets pool around my waist and take in the bedroom that never quite feels like mine.

Everything in this house is beautiful, expensive, all of which is carefully curated by a designer Dylan hired before we got married.

The walls are a sophisticated greige. The furniture is mid-century modern with clean lines and no warmth.

The art is abstract and meaningless, chosen because it matched the color palette rather than because it made either of us feel anything.

I’ve lived here for five years, and I still don’t know where the spare towels are kept.

My phone buzzes with another notification. More comments on last night’s photos, more strangers projecting their fantasies onto my marriage.

God I wish that were me.

Couple goals forever.

They’re literally perfect.

I should feel something when I read these. Pride, maybe. Satisfaction. The warm glow of being envied. Instead, I just feel the hollow ache that’s been living in my chest for so long I’ve forgotten what it felt like before it moved in.

Pulling up my messages, I type out a text to Dylan.

Hey, baby. I was thinking we could do a gallery date this afternoon? That new contemporary exhibition opened downtown, and I know you wanted to see the Rothko collection. Just the two of us, like we used to.

I add a heart emoji, then delete it. Add it again. Delete it again. Finally, I just hit send without it and set my phone face-down on the nightstand so I won’t stare at it waiting for his response.

In the bathroom, I go through my skincare routine on autopilot.

Cleanser, toner, serum, moisturizer. The products cost more than my first car, and they smell like a spa I’ve never visited.

I study my reflection in the mirror, studying the face that photographers love and magazines pay millions to feature.

Selene Riego. Née Vance. Thirty-one years old.

Actress since fourteen, when a casting director spotted me at a mall in Santa Monica and told my mother I had “the kind of face that makes people believe in things.” I climbed my way to the top of this industry one audition at a time, survived the teen stardom years without a public breakdown, transitioned into serious dramatic roles that earned me critical acclaim.

Then I fell in love with a rookie director who looked at me like I was the only person in the room, and somehow, somewhere along the way, I stopped climbing.

Now I’m the face of his brand. The plus-one at his premieres. The wife who stands beside him in photographs looking beautiful and supportive and perfectly, pleasantly blank.

My phone buzzes.

I practically lunge for it, and I hate myself for the desperation even as I’m doing it.

The message isn’t from Dylan. It’s from his assistant, Priya.

Hi Selene! Dylan asked me to let you know he won’t be able to make the gallery this afternoon. There are some crucial matters to deal with in the studio that require his attention. He says he’s really sorry and will make it up to you. Hope you have a lovely afternoon!

I read the message three times, waiting for the words to rearrange themselves into something that doesn’t feel like a door closing.

They don’t.

Priya sent this message, which means Dylan couldn’t even take thirty seconds to type out a rejection himself. He passed the task off to his assistant like I’m just another item on his schedule to be managed. Gallery date with wife - declined. Reschedule or send apology gift.

The truly pathetic part is that I’m not even surprised.

I scroll back through our recent text history, and the pattern glares at me like a flashing sign I’ve been too willfully blind to read.

For every message I’ve sent, there’s either a delayed response or no response at all.

Three days ago, I asked if he wanted to cook dinner together like we used to.

He hearted the message and never followed up.

Last week, I sent him a link to an article about a director we both admired, hoping it might spark a conversation.

Left on read. Two weeks before that, I asked what time he’d be home and received a response from Priya six hours later.

I’ve been having a text relationship with my husband’s assistant, and I didn’t even realize it until now.