3. Selene #2
She straightens slowly, deliberately, letting her hand rest on Dylan’s shoulder just a beat too long. Her eyebrow arches as she takes in the bag I’m carrying, and a smile curls across her face that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Selene.” She draws out my name like she’s savoring it. “What a surprise.”
“Claudette.” I keep my voice neutral, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing me rattled. “I didn’t realize you’d be here.”
“Where else would I be?” She tilts her head, mock-innocent. “This is my production too, you know. Dylan and I have been working around the clock to make it perfect.”
Her emphasis on Dylan and I lands exactly where she intends it to, right in the soft vulnerable space beneath my ribs.
Dylan finally looks up from the monitor, and surprise registers on his face. His brow furrows slightly, the automatic welcome I’m expecting replaced by confusion.
“Selene?” He lifts his headphones off his neck and sets them aside. “What are you doing here? We’re on a really tight schedule today.”
The question shouldn’t hurt as much as it does. I’m his wife. I shouldn’t need a reason to visit my husband at work. But the way he’s looking at me, as if I’m an interruption, an inconvenience, one that doesn’t quite fit into his carefully orchestrated day. It makes my throat tighten.
“I know.” I lift the bag slightly, trying to keep my voice bright. “I just noticed you haven’t been eating properly lately, so I thought I’d bring you a meal. I made that chicken bowl you used to love.”
Dylan glances at the bag, but his attention is already drifting back toward the monitor.
“That’s sweet, baby, but I’m completely swamped today.
” He waves a dismissive hand without really looking at me.
“Besides, I already had a sandwich earlier. One of the PAs grabbed something from craft services.”
Craft services. He’s been surviving on catered sandwiches while I spent two hours in our kitchen making him a home-cooked meal that he can’t even be bothered to acknowledge.
“I also brought enough for you to share,” I press on, hating how desperate my voice sounds but unable to stop myself. “In case anyone else wanted-”
“That’s really thoughtful.” Dylan cuts me off with a distracted smile, the kind of smile he gives to pushy journalists and over-eager fans. “But honestly, we’re right in the middle of a crucial scene. Can you just leave it somewhere and I’ll get to it when I have a break?”
Leave it somewhere. Like I’m a delivery person. Like I’m not his wife standing in front of him with tangible proof that I still care about him.
Claudette chooses this moment to step closer, positioning herself at Dylan’s side in a way that creates a clear visual divide, them on one side, me on the other.
“He’s been like this all week,” she says, her tone dripping with false sympathy. “So focused on getting everything perfect. You know how he gets.”
I do know how he gets. I’ve known for seven years. But the way Claudette says it, like she’s the one who truly understands him, like she’s the keeper of knowledge that I no longer have access to, makes something dark and ugly twist in my stomach.
“I can see that.” I keep my voice steady. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“Oh, you’re not interrupting.” Claudette’s smile widens, her eyes glittering with malice. “We’re just a little busy doing the actual work, you know? Not everyone gets to spend their days at home.”
The barb finds its mark. Dylan doesn’t notice, he’s already turned back to the monitor, muttering something to the cinematographer about lighting ratios. But several nearby crew members shift uncomfortably at the clear undercurrent of malice in Claudette’s tone.
“I have plenty to keep me busy.” I force the words out through a tight jaw. “Brand partnerships. Appearances. My own career.”
“Of course you do.” Claudette examines her perfectly manicured nails with an air of affected boredom. “All those photoshoots must be exhausting. Standing around looking pretty while other people do the creative work.”
The words hit me hard, because they echo a thought I’ve been telling myself for years. That I’ve become decorative instead of essential. That my value has been reduced to the face I present to the world instead of the mind that used to create alongside my husband.
Dylan is still oblivious, deep in conversation with his cinematographer about coverage options. He’s not even pretending to pay attention to me anymore. I’ve been dismissed, filed away as a distraction to be dealt with later.
“It must be nice, though.” Claudette’s voice drops, becoming almost intimate, like she’s sharing a secret just between us. “Being a stay-at-home wife. Spending your husband’s money while we work behind the scenes. Some women would kill for that kind of life.”
The accusation is so absurd, so breathtakingly unfair, that I almost laugh.
I’m not a stay-at-home wife by choice. I had a career, a brilliant and award-winning one, that I slowly surrendered because my husband kept assuring me that his work was more important, that my support was more valuable than my ambition, that we were a team even as he systematically removed me from every position of creative influence.
But I don’t say any of that, because Dylan is finally looking at me again, and his expression is one of exhausted impatience.
“Baby, I really appreciate you coming all this way.” He stands up and crosses to me, pressing a quick kiss to my forehead that feels more like a dismissal than a greeting. “But we’re about to roll on a really important scene, and I need to focus. Can we catch up at home later?”
The word has become his default. His escape hatch.
“Of course.” I hand him the bag, and he takes it automatically without looking at what’s inside. “I’ll just…”
I trail off, because I don’t know how to finish that sentence. I’ll just go back to the mansion. I’ll just wait for you to remember I exist. I’ll just keep shrinking myself until I disappear entirely.
“Thank you for the food.” Dylan squeezes my arm and turns back toward the monitor, already refocusing on his work. “Love you.”
The words sound like an afterthought. A habit rather than a feeling.