7. Selene #2
“The nomination reel was perfect.” Claudette touches his arm, her fingers lingering. “You should be proud.”
“We should be proud.” Dylan covers her hand with his own, and something inside me goes very still. “None of this would have happened without you.”
My husband holds another woman’s hand in public, and the last piece of denial I’ve been clinging to crumbles.
I think about the woman I used to be, the one who would never have tolerated being treated like this, the one who had too much self-respect to sit silently while her marriage crumbled around her.
That woman feels very far away tonight.
But she’s not gone entirely. Somewhere deep inside me, underneath all the numbness and the disappointment and the years of making myself smaller, she’s still there.
And she’s starting to wake up.
When Dylan’s category is announced, everyone at our table straightens, leans forward.
This is the moment he’s been working toward for years. The project that consumed our marriage, the film that took him away from me night after night, is finally being recognized. If he wins tonight, it will cement his status as one of the great directors of his generation.
If he wins tonight, it will validate every sacrifice I made. Every lonely dinner. Every abandoned conversation. Every time I told myself it would all be worth it in the end.
“And the award goes to… Dylan Riego!”
The auditorium erupts in applause.
Dylan is on his feet immediately. He works the room on his way to the stage. Hugs colleagues. Waves to the balcony. He’s magnetic, every inch the golden boy director that Hollywood has been celebrating for years.
He doesn’t look at me once.
He doesn’t even turn back to acknowledge that I exist.
He just strides toward the stage confidently. A picture of a man who already has everything he needs, leaving me behind to clap along with everyone else.
My husband accepts the highest honor of his career, and I feel absolutely nothing.
No pride. No joy. No sense that we achieved this together.
Just emptiness.
Dylan takes the microphone, and his smile is radiant as he looks out over the assembled crowd.
“Wow.” He laughs, self-deprecating and charming. “I really didn’t expect this. I had a whole speech prepared, but now I’m just standing here trying to remember my own name.”
The audience laughs with him. They love him. Everyone loves him.
“There are so many people to thank.” He shifts the award to his other hand, his expression turning serious.
“The studio, for believing in this vision. The cast and crew, for bringing it to life with such dedication and artistry. I’ve had some realizations lately and I want to take this opportunity to thank someone tonight.
She has been my anchor, my inspiration, a brilliant muse. ”
My heart stutters.
He’s going to thank me, I think. He’s finally going to acknowledge what I sacrificed. He’s going to tell the world that I matter to him.
Dylan’s eyes scan the audience, and for one breathless moment, I think he’s looking for me.
Then his gaze lands on Claudette, and his smile softens into an intimate one.
“Claudette Vance.” He utters her name with adoration.
“I’m actually working with her on an ongoing project.
You pushed me to be better. You challenged every assumption I had about a story.
You saw what a film could be before anyone else did, and you never let me settle for less than extraordinary.
This award also deserves your name as much as it deserves mine. ”
The audience applauds.
Claudette ducks her head in false modesty. She glances in my direction with that same small, victorious smile.
Dylan continues, his voice fond as he wraps up his speech. “And of course, thank you to my wife, Selene, for keeping things running at home.”
I flinch at his words.
For keeping things running at home.
That’s it. That’s all I am to him. The woman who maintains the house while he builds his empire. The silent support system who makes sure his life runs smoothly so he can focus on more important things.
I’m not his partner, nor his equal. Not even his inspiration anymore. Just the housekeeper.
Just the housekeeper.
The audience applauds politely, and Dylan exits the stage to a standing ovation. I watch him disappear into the wings, presumably to do press interviews and photo calls, and I don’t bother trying to catch his eye.
What would be the point?
Around me, the ceremony continues, but I’ve stopped paying attention. The room blurs as tears I’ve been holding back all night finally begin to fall, sliding silently down my cheeks while I stare at the seat my husband vacated.
Thank you to my wife for keeping things running at home.
The mocking words echo in my skull, final.
I gave up everything for him, my career, my creative partnership, my sense of self. I made myself smaller every time, convinced that my sacrifice was noble, that it was worth it, that someday he would recognize what I’d given up and cherish me for it.
Instead, he thanked his co-producer on live television while reducing me to a domestic afterthought.
A photographer somewhere in the press pit probably catches my tears.
I don’t bother wiping them away.
The after-party is a blur of congratulations and champagne that I don’t remember drinking.
Dylan is surrounded by well-wishers all night, basking in the glow of his victory while I hover at the edges of conversations I’m not invited into. Claudette stays close to him, accepting praise for her role in the production, occasionally glancing my way with that infuriating smile.
I left early, citing a headache.
Dylan barely notices.
The drive home is silent, the city lights blurring past my window as the driver navigates the empty late-night streets. I check my phone and immediately wish I hadn’t.
The photos are everywhere.
Dylan and Claudette on the red carpet, looking like the industry’s newest power couple.
Dylan’s speech, with highlighted quotes about his “brilliant muse” and “anchor.” And there, in stark contrast, photos of me sitting alone at the start of the ceremony, then crying as the room applauded my husband’s dismissive thank you.
The headlines are brutal:
Selene Riego’s Tears: The Moment Hollywood’s Marriage Crumbled
Dylan Riego Thanks Everyone But His Wife in Award Speech
From Power Couple to Public Humiliation: Inside the Riego Marriage Crisis
I scroll through the articles without really reading them. The words wash over me, speculation about affairs, analysis of body language, interviews with “sources close to the couple” who are probably just opportunistic strangers looking for their moment of fame.
The whole world now knows what I’ve been trying to ignore for months.
My marriage is over.
It’s been over for a long time. I just kept pretending otherwise, kept hoping that if I was patient enough, understanding enough, small enough, Dylan would eventually remember that he loved me.
But you can’t make someone remember something they’ve already forgotten.
And Dylan forgot me a long time ago.
The car pulls into our driveway, and I sit in the darkness for a long moment, staring at the house that never felt like home.
Tomorrow, the press will want statements. Publicists will craft damage control strategies. Dylan will probably come home full of apologies and promises, not understanding why I’m upset when he’s just achieved the greatest triumph of his career.
But tonight, I’m going to walk into that empty mansion, pour myself a glass of wine, and make a decision.
The divorce papers are waiting in my vanity drawer.
After tonight, I think they’ve waited long enough.
I step out of the car and walk toward the front door, and for the first time in years, my spine feels straight.
Not because anything has gotten better.
Because I’ve finally accepted that it won’t.
And there’s a strange kind of freedom in that acceptance.
A freedom that feels almost like the beginning of a life I can’t imagine yet.