3. Selene
— ? —
Selene
Three weeks until our anniversary, and I can’t even get my husband to look at a calendar.
“What about that rooftop restaurant in Malibu?” I scroll through my phone, pulling up photos of the oceanfront venue we talked about visiting years ago.
“They have a private terrace overlooking the water, and I checked their availability. They can do a custom tasting menu for two. If it’s too tight for your schedule to fly out, we can just go to Sunset’s Soiree. ”
Dylan doesn’t look up from his laptop. He’s sitting at the kitchen island with his breakfast untouched beside him, his eyes fixed on whatever footage he’s reviewing through his earbuds. I’ve been talking for five minutes, and I’m not entirely sure he’s heard a single word.
“Dylan.” I reach over and gently pull one earbud free. “Did you hear me?”
He blinks, his focus dragging slowly back to my face. “Sorry, baby, what?”
“Our anniversary.” I keep my voice patient, even though a knot is starting to tighten in my chest. “I was asking about the Malibu restaurant. The one with the terrace. Or at our favorite restaurant.”
“Oh.” He rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand, the dark circles have taken up permanent residence beneath his eyes. “Can we talk about it later, though? I’ve got this scene that’s not cutting together right, and I need to figure it out before today’s shoot.”
Later. It’s always later with him now.
“You said that last week.” I set my phone down and fold my hands in my lap, trying to look calm when I feel anything but. “And the week before that. Our anniversary is in three weeks, Dylan. If we want to do something special, we need to book it soon.”
“I know, I know.” He’s already putting the earbud back in, his attention drifting toward the screen. “Just give me a few days to get through this rough patch in production, and then we can sit down and plan the whole thing properly. I promise.”
The promise lands hollow in my chest, right next to all the other promises he’s made and forgotten.
“Fine.” I stand up from the island, gathering my coffee cup even though it’s still half full. “Let me know when you have time for your wife.”
I mean for it to come out light, teasing, but it lands with more edge than I intended. Dylan looks up, a flash of something guilty crossing his features.
“Selene.” He catches my wrist before I can walk away. “I’m sorry. I know I’ve been distracted lately. This project is just consuming everything right now, but it won’t be like this forever.”
“I know.” I force a smile that might shatter if I hold it too long. “Go figure out your scene. We can talk later.”
He searches my face for a moment, and I wonder if he can see the cracks forming beneath my carefully constructed surface. Then he nods, presses a distracted kiss to my knuckles, and turns back to his laptop.
I carry my coffee to the sink and pour it down the drain, watching the dark liquid spiral away.
Later. Always later. Everything important gets pushed to later until it becomes never, and I’m so tired of waiting for a someday that keeps receding like the horizon.
The mansion feels emptier than usual today.
I wander through the rooms in my own home, picking things up and putting them down again without any real purpose.
The housekeeper came yesterday, so everything is spotless and arranged with military precision.
There’s nothing to clean, nothing to organize, nothing to do except exist in this beautiful cage I’ve somehow built around myself.
My phone buzzes with a notification. Another brand partnership opportunity from my agent, another request for Selene Riego to smile beside a luxury product and pretend her life is as perfect as the photos suggest.
I swipe the notification away without responding.
In the kitchen, I open the refrigerator and stare at the contents without really seeing them. Fresh produce arranged in neat rows. Expensive cheeses I don’t remember buying. Leftovers from meals Dylan never came home to eat.
A thought forms slowly in my mind, taking shape like fog solidifying into something tangible.
Dylan hasn’t been eating properly. I’ve seen the evidence scattered around the house, protein bar wrappers in his jacket pockets, energy drink cans on his desk, the breakfast plates that go untouched while he reviews footage.
He’s been running himself into the ground for this production, surviving on caffeine and adrenaline, and no one is making sure he takes care of himself.
I used to do that. Back when we were building his career together, I was the one who forced him to take breaks. Who showed up on set with real food when I knew he’d been living on vending machine snacks. Who reminded him that he was a person first and a director second.
When did I stop doing that?
When did I let myself become so invisible in his life that even the basic act of feeding him became someone else’s responsibility?
Before I can second-guess myself, I’m pulling ingredients out of the refrigerator.
Chicken breasts for the protein bowl he used to love.
Fresh vegetables for roasting. The good olive oil from the pantry and the herbs I planted on the kitchen windowsill months ago and have been tending ever since, waiting for someone to use them.
Cooking has always been meditative for me. The precision of knife work, the alchemy of heat transforming raw ingredients into something nourishing. I lose myself in the rhythm of it, chopping and seasoning and stirring, and for the first time in weeks, my mind goes quiet.
I pack everything into thermal containers, arrange them in a canvas tote bag along with real silverware and cloth napkins, because if I’m going to bring my husband lunch, I’m going to do it properly.
Then I add a second portion, because I know Dylan will offer to share with whoever’s nearby, and I don’t want him to go hungry on my account.
The drive to the studio takes forty minutes, and I spend the entire time rehearsing what I’ll say when I get there.
Something casual. Something that won’t make him feel pressured or guilty.
I’m just being a good wife, showing up with food because I care about him, reminding him that I exist outside of the photoshoots and brand deals he seems to think consume my entire life.
I park in the visitor lot and check my reflection in the rearview mirror. I look fine. Put together. Like the kind of woman who has her life under control, even though I feel like I’m barely holding myself together with borrowed thread.
The security guard at the gate recognizes me and waves me through with a smile. “Mrs. Riego! It’s been a while since we’ve seen you around here.”
“I know.” I return his smile, ignoring the twist in my stomach at the reminder of how long it’s been since I visited my husband at work. “I brought lunch.”
“Lucky man, that husband of yours.” He gestures toward the main soundstage. “He’s in Studio C. They’ve been in there all morning.”
Studio C is the largest space on the lot, reserved for the most complex productions.
I make my way through the labyrinth of corridors and equipment storage areas, the familiar scent of sawdust and coffee and creative energy filling my lungs.
I used to love this smell. It used to mean possibility, collaboration, the intoxicating rush of bringing stories to life.
Now it just reminds me of everything I’ve lost.
The red light above the studio door is off, which means they’re not actively rolling. I push through the heavy soundproofed entrance and step into controlled chaos.
The set is enormous, a sprawling recreation of what looks like a 1940s apartment building, all exposed brick and vintage furniture and carefully aged wallpaper.
Crew members swarm the set, adjusting lights and checking equipment and conferring over tablets.
Everyone moves with focused intensity, the particular kind that only exists when a crew believes in what they’re building.
I spot Dylan immediately.
He’s seated at the director’s monitor near the center of it all, his headphones slung around his neck and his attention fixed on the screen in front of him. He looks exhausted and exhilarated in equal measure, the way he always looks when he’s in the middle of creating a story that matters to him.
And hunched over his shoulder, close enough that her hair brushes his cheek, is Claudette.
My stepsister is saying something in his ear, pointing at the monitor, and Dylan is nodding along with that expression of complete creative absorption that I used to know so intimately.
They look like two halves of the same mind.
They look like the creative team we used to be. The team I thought we still were.
Like everything we used to be.
I stand frozen in the doorway, my hands white-knuckled on the handles of my canvas bag, watching my husband and my estranged stepsister occupy a space that used to belong to me.
A production assistant notices me first. “Mrs. Riego!” She hurries over with a bright smile, clearly thrilled to see Hollywood royalty on set. “It’s so wonderful to see you. Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?”
Her enthusiastic greeting ripples outward, drawing attention from the crew members nearby. Heads turn in my direction. Murmurs spread through the room. She leads me toward where Dylan and Claudette are.
Selene Riego is here. Dylan’s wife. The actress.
Claudette’s head lifts at the commotion, and our eyes meet across the crowded studio.
The last time I saw her was five years ago, at a family dinner that devolved into screaming. She told me I was smothering Dylan’s potential. I told her she was jealous of everything I’d built. We haven’t spoken since, and I haven’t particularly wanted to.
But now here she is, standing beside my husband like she belongs there, and the look she gives me is pure, undisguised triumph.