4. Dylan #2
Claudette’s voice fills the room, confident and casual, as if she has every right to call my husband this late at night while he’s supposed to be spending time with his wife.
“Dylan, we need to adjust the schedule for tomorrow. I moved the night scene up, so we’ll probably be shooting until 8:00 p.m. at least. You may not be able to leave early again, but I’m sure your wife will understand. She always does, right? Call me when you get this.”
The voicemail ends, and I’m left holding the phone, my hands trembling with a rage I can barely contain.
Your wife will understand. She always does.
The dismissiveness in her voice, the easy assumption that I’ll simply accept whatever crumbs Dylan throws my way. It cuts deeper than any insult could. Because she’s right. I have been understanding. I have been patient and supportive and endlessly accommodating, and where has it gotten me?
Alone on the eve of my anniversary, making restaurant reservations for a dinner my husband will probably miss.
The phone buzzes again. Another call from Claudette.
This time, I answer.
“Dylan, finally.” Claudette’s voice pours through the speaker, warm and familiar in a way that makes my stomach turn. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten how to use a phone. Listen, about tomorrow-”
“He’s in the shower.” My voice comes out cold, cutting through her casual tone.
A beat of silence stretches across the line. I can almost hear Claudette recalibrating, adjusting her approach now that she knows who she’s talking to.
Then she laughs, a sharp sound that’s entirely devoid of humor.
“Selene.” She draws out my name, savoring the distaste. “I didn’t realize he actually went home tonight. That’s quite surprising, don’t you think? He’s been practically living at the studio for weeks.”
The implication sinks in, right where she aimed it. My husband has been spending his nights at the studio, and my stepsister is surprised that he bothered to come home at all.
“It’s our anniversary tomorrow.” I keep my voice steady through sheer force of will. “We’re going out for dinner.”
“Are you?” Claudette’s tone drips with barely concealed amusement. “How sweet. Although I should mention that I moved the night scene up, so Dylan probably won’t be able to leave before eight. We’re at a crucial point in production, you understand.”
“He told me he’d be there.”
“He told you what you wanted to hear.” Claudette’s voice hardens, the pretense of pleasantry falling away. “That’s what Dylan does, Selene. He makes promises to keep the peace, and then he does what actually matters to him. Which is his work. Which is here, with me.”
My grip on the phone tightens until I’m surprised the screen doesn’t crack. My pulse is racing, my breath coming in short, sharp bursts that I fight to control.
“You don’t know him like I do.” The words come out sharper than I intend. “You’ve gotten close to him for a few months. I’ve been with him for seven years.”
“Exactly.” Claudette’s voice is silky smooth, confident in a way that makes me want to scream. “You’ve known him for seven years, and what has that gotten you? A beautiful mansion to wander around in? A credit card with his name on it? You’re not his partner, Selene. You’re his… decoration.”
The word cuts straight through my chest.
Decoration.
That’s how she sees me. That’s how she wants Dylan to see me. And the worst part, the part that makes me want to collapse onto the floor and never get up, is that I’m not entirely sure she’s wrong.
“Dylan belongs on the set.” Claudette continues, relentless.
“He belongs where his vision can flourish, where people actually challenge him and push him to be better. He shouldn’t be sitting across from his trophy wife, pretending to care about how sweet the wine is while his production falls behind. ”
“Stop controlling him, Claudette.” My voice trembles despite my best efforts. “Know your place.”
“My place?” She laughs again, and this time there’s genuine delight in it. “My place is right where I’ve always wanted to be. In the creative seat. In his confidence. In all the spaces you let go of because you were too comfortable being his accessory instead of his equal.”
The bathroom door opens.
I freeze, the phone still pressed to my ear, as Dylan emerges in a cloud of steam with a towel wrapped around his waist. He sees me holding his phone and frowns.
“Baby? Who is that?”
“It’s Claudette.” I hold his gaze as I say her name, watching for any flicker of guilt, any sign that he knows how inappropriate this situation is. “She’s calling about the schedule tomorrow.”
Dylan crosses to me and reaches for the phone with an expression of mild annoyance. “She couldn’t have texted? Give it here, I’ll handle it.”
I pull the phone back before he can take it. “I’m handling it.”
His expression shifts, confused, maybe, or the first stirrings of concern. But before he can respond, Claudette’s voice reaches my ears.
“Selene? Are you still there?”
I bring the phone back to my ear, my eyes still locked with my husband’s. “I’m here.”
“Good. I want you to understand something.” Claudette’s voice is calm now, almost gentle, which makes it infinitely more threatening.
“I don’t have to control Dylan. He chooses to be here, at the studio, with me.
He spends every day by my side because I bring a spark to his mind. I challenge him. I make him better.”
I watch Dylan’s frown deepen as he tries to follow the one-sided conversation. He reaches for the phone again, more insistent this time. “Selene, give me the phone. Let me talk to her.”
I step back, putting distance between us. “What’s your point, Claudette?”
“My point is that you’re yesterday’s muse, Selene.
” Her voice drops, almost intimate, as if she’s sharing a secret.
“You remind him of a passion he’s long outgrown.
The girl he fell in love with was a creator, an artist, someone who stood beside him as an equal.
But that’s not who you are anymore, is it? ”
The words pierce through every defense I’ve built over the years. Every justification I’ve made for shrinking myself. Every reassurance I’ve accepted that my sacrifice was noble, necessary, the price of loving someone whose dreams were bigger than mine.
Claudette’s right. The woman Dylan fell in love with wouldn’t have accepted crumbs. She would have demanded a seat at the table.
But that woman is buried so deep now that I’m not sure I could find her if I tried.
“Enjoy your anniversary dinner tomorrow.” Claudette’s voice is sugar-coated venom. “If he even bothers to show up.”
The line goes dead.
I lower the phone slowly, my hand shaking with the effort of not throwing it across the room.
Dylan is staring at me with confusion and concern warring on his face, and I realize that he has no idea what just happened.
No idea that my stepsister just eviscerated me on his phone while he was washing off the day’s exhaustion.
“What was that about?” He takes the phone from my unresisting fingers. “What did she say to you?”
I could tell him. I could repeat every poisonous word, every calculated jab, every implication that my place in his life has been usurped by a woman who’s been in the industry for less than a year.
I could demand that he fire her, that he choose me, that he prove Claudette wrong by showing up tomorrow night and being the husband I deserve.
But looking at his face right now, the concern that’s already fading back into distraction, the way his eyes keep drifting toward his overnight bag, the subtle impatience in his stance, it wouldn’t matter.
He’d apologize. He’d promise to talk to Claudette about boundaries. He’d assure me that I’m the most important person in his life, that I have nothing to worry about, that he loves me more than anything.
And then he’d go back to the studio, and nothing would change.
“Nothing important.” I hear the words leave my mouth, hollow. “She was just confirming tomorrow’s schedule.”
Dylan nods, already moving toward the closet to grab the last of his things. “I’ll talk to her about calling so late. She gets a little overzealous about production stuff sometimes, but she means well.”
She means well.
I almost laugh, almost scream. Instead, I just stand there, watching my husband finish packing, wondering how I became someone who accepts this treatment as normal.
“I should head back.” Dylan zips up his bag and crosses to me, pressing a quick kiss to my lips that tastes like goodbye. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, okay? Eight o’clock. Our favorite restaurant.”
“Eight o’clock,” I repeat.
“I love you, baby.” He’s already moving toward the door. “I’ll make this up to you. I promise.”
The door closes behind him, and I’m left alone in our bedroom, surrounded by the lingering steam from his shower and the echo of Claudette’s words.
If he even bothers to show up.
I sink onto the edge of the bed and stare at the wall, trying to remember the last time I felt like myself. The last time I felt like someone worth showing up for.
I can’t.
Tomorrow is my seventh wedding anniversary, and I’m going to spend it making a reservation for a dinner I’m increasingly certain I’ll be eating alone.
Silently, hot tears start tracking down my cheeks as I finally let myself feel the full weight of everything I’ve been carrying. The loneliness. The invisibility. The slow, systematic dismantling of the woman I used to be.
I cry until there’s nothing left, and then I pull out my phone and make a reservation for two at our favorite restaurant.
Eight o’clock. Candlelit terrace. A celebration of seven years with a man who forgot I existed until I reminded him.
If he even bothers to show up.