10. Dylan
— ? —
Dylan
The days blur together in a haze of alcohol and unanswered calls.
I stopped counting after the first week. What’s the point? Each day is the same, wake up on whatever surface I passed out on, reach for my phone, call Selene, listen to her voicemail, leave another message she’ll never hear. Repeat until exhaustion or whiskey drags me back under.
The mansion has become a mausoleum. I drift through rooms that echo with memories I can’t escape, touching surfaces she used to touch, sitting in chairs where she used to sit.
Her scent has faded from the scarf I carry everywhere, but I keep pressing it to my face anyway, desperate for any trace of her that might remain.
My phone buzzes constantly with calls I don’t answer. The studio. My agent. Producers demanding to know when I’ll be coming back to the set. I let them all go to voicemail, the way Selene lets mine go.
Poetic justice, I suppose.
The only number I keep calling is hers, over and over, a ritual or a prayer. Each time, the same cheerful recording. Each time, I leave another message.
“Selene, please. I need to talk to you.”
“Baby, I know I messed up. I know I don’t deserve another chance. But please, just let me explain.”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ll do anything. Just tell me what you need.”
“Please come home.”
She never responds.
I lose track of which day it is when Claudette shows up.
I’m lying on the floor of the living room, surrounded by bottles I don’t remember opening, staring at the ceiling and wondering if I’m drowning.
The doorbell has been ringing for what feels like hours, and I’ve been ignoring it, assuming it’s another delivery person or concerned colleague or anyone except the only person I actually want to see.
Then I hear the click of heels on marble, and a voice that makes my stomach turn.
“Dylan? I’ve been ringing you, but I noticed that the door’s actually unlocked so I let myself in… Dylan, where are you?”
Claudette appears in the doorway, her silhouette backlit by the afternoon sun streaming through the windows. She’s dressed impeccably as always, her hair perfect, her makeup flawless, every inch the polished professional she presents to the world.
I hate the sight of her.
“Dylan!” She rushes toward me, her expression shifting from concern to horror as she takes in the scene.
The bottles. The disheveled clothes I’ve been wearing for days.
The general air of a man who’s stopped caring whether he lives or dies.
“What the hell are you doing? You’ve been missing from the set for days! ”
I squint up at her, trying to force her face into focus through the alcohol haze. “Clau… Claudette?”
“Yes, it’s me.” She crouches beside me, her hand reaching for my shoulder. “Everyone’s been trying to reach you. Everything’s stalling without you. We need you back at the studio.”
Her words wash over me like water, meaningless and distant. I don’t care about the studio. I don’t care about the film. I don’t care about anything except the woman who left me.
“Your sister.” The words come out slurred, desperate. “Please. Let me know where she is.”
Claudette freezes, her hand still hovering near my shoulder. “What?”
“Selene.” Just saying her name makes my chest ache. “You’re her sister. You must know where she went. Please, Clau. I need to find her. I need to…” My voice breaks. “I need to bring her home.”
For a moment, something flickers across Claudette’s face. I almost mistake it for guilt, but she quickly suppresses it.
Then her expression hardens into annoyance.
“Dylan, give it up.” She stands, brushing off her designer skirt like proximity to my despair might stain it. “She’s already gone. She left you because she couldn’t handle your success.”
The words take a moment to penetrate the fog in my brain. When they do, they land with force.
“What did you say?”
“I said she’s gone.” Claudette’s voice is dismissive, impatient, as if she’s explaining something obvious to a slow child. “Selene couldn’t handle watching you become everything she used to be. She was jealous, Dylan. So bitter and-”
“That’s not true.”
“Of course it’s true. Why else would she leave right after your biggest triumph?” Claudette crouches again, her face close to mine, her perfume cloying in my nostrils. “You’re wasting your time crying over her when our movie is falling apart. You don’t need her, Dylan.”
She reaches out and cups my face in her hands, her touch cold and unwelcome. Her smile is meant to be comforting, but there’s a predatory edge to it that makes my skin crawl.
“You have me.”
The toxic words hang in the air, revealing her true intentions.
Not I’m here to support you through this difficult time.
Not Let me help you process this loss.
Just You have me. She’s offering herself as a replacement, as if my wife of seven years can be swapped out for a newer model without consequence.
Something shifts in my alcohol-soaked brain. The fog lifts slightly, and I look at Claudette, really look at her, for what feels like the first time.
Her dismissive posture. The lack of sympathy for her own sister. The way she’s been hovering at the edges of my marriage for months, inserting herself into spaces that used to belong to Selene.
Memories flash through my mind with piercing clarity.
Claudette volunteering to answer Selene’s calls on set. “Don’t worry about it, Dylan, I’ll tell her you’re busy. She understands.”
Urging me to stay late, night after night. “The scene isn’t quite right yet. Selene knows how demanding production can be. She won’t mind.”
Her subtle remarks about my wife, dropped so casually I barely registered them at the time. “It must be nice for her, not having to work. Just sitting at home, spending your money.”
Walking the red carpet on my arm while my wife stood alone, humiliated, watching her marriage unravel in front of the world.
“You have me.”
The glass shatters.
Not literally, nothing breaks except the illusion I’ve been operating under for months. The comfortable fiction that Claudette was just an eager colleague, just a talented co-producer, just someone who happened to share my creative vision.
She wasn’t building a partnership with me.
She was dismantling my marriage.
I shove her hands away from my face with enough force that she stumbles backward. “What did you say?”
“Dylan-” Her eyes widen, startled by the sudden shift in my demeanor. “I said she’s gone. You should be moving forward instead of moping over someone who isn’t your level-”
“Get out.”
The words come out quiet, but there’s a coldness in them that makes Claudette freeze mid-sentence.
“What?”
I push myself to my feet, swaying slightly but finding my balance through sheer force of will. The room tilts, but I plant my feet and stare down at the woman who helped destroy everything I cared about.
“Get out of my house.”
“Dylan, you’re drunk.” Claudette tries for a placating smile. “You don’t know what you’re saying. Just let me help you-”
“Help me?” A humorless laugh tears out of my throat. “Is that what you’ve been doing all these months? Helping me? Is that what you call the way you’re turning me against my wife?”
Claudette’s face pales. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Every time Selene called the studio, you answered. Every time I thought about going home early, you had another crisis that needed my attention. Every time my wife tried to reach me, you were there, whispering that she understood, that she didn’t mind, that I should focus on the work instead of her. ”
I step closer, and Claudette retreats, her careful composure cracking.
“Did you think I wouldn’t figure it out? Did you think I was so blind, so stupid, that I’d never see what you were doing?”
“I was trying to help you succeed-”
“You were trying to replace her!” The words explode out of me. “You wanted her position. You wanted her seat at the table. You wanted everything she had, including me, and you didn’t care how much damage you did to get it.”
Claudette’s expression shifts, the mask slips, revealing the ugliness underneath.
“So what if I did? She wasn’t using any of it.
She gave up her career to be your cheerleader, Dylan.
She stopped creating, stopped contributing, stopped being anything except your pretty little accessory. Someone had to fill the void she left.”
“That void was mine to fill. Ours to fill together.” My voice breaks on the words. “And instead of helping us, you wedged yourself between us until there was nothing left to save.”
“I didn’t make you neglect her.” Claudette’s tone turns defensive. “I didn’t force you to choose work over your marriage. I just showed you what was possible when you had a real partner instead of a retired trophy wife.”
The words strike home. But instead of the shame I might have felt a week ago, all I feel is rage.
“You’re fired.”
Claudette blinks. “What?”
“You heard me.” I grab her arm and start dragging her toward the door. “You’re fired, Claudette. Effective immediately.”
“You can’t do that!” She tries to dig her heels in, but I’m bigger and angrier and beyond caring about her comfort. “I have a contract! We’re not done yet! You need me!”
“I don’t need you.” I wrench open the front door and shove her through it, onto the porch, into the afternoon sun. “I never needed you. I needed my wife, and you helped me drive her away, and now you’re going to pay for it.”
“Dylan, be reasonable-”
“Don’t you dare set foot on my set again.” My voice is laced with venom and seven years of love poisoned by her manipulation. “Don’t speak to anyone associated with my productions. Don’t even think about signing another deal in this town.”
Claudette’s face contorts with fury. “You can’t blacklist me. I’m talented. I’m connected. Other directors will-”