10. Dylan #2
“Other directors will hear exactly what you did. How you insinuated yourself into my marriage. How you manipulated me into neglecting my wife. How you used your position to meticulously destroy the woman you were supposed to be loyal to.” I lean in close, letting her see the full depth of my hatred.
“And if you ever speak Selene’s name in front of me again, I will personally ensure that you never work in this industry as long as you live. ”
I slam the door in her face.
The satisfying sound of it echoes through the empty foyer.
Through the window, I watch Claudette stand on my porch for a long moment, her expression cycling through shock, rage, and finally fear. Then she turns and walks to her car, her heels clicking against the pavement with increasing speed.
She doesn’t look back.
Good.
I lean against the door and let myself slide to the floor, suddenly exhausted. The adrenaline that carried me through the confrontation drains away, leaving nothing but the familiar ache of loss.
Firing Claudette doesn’t bring Selene back.
Understanding her manipulation doesn’t undo the damage.
I’m still alone, still surrounded by empty bottles and emptier rooms, still clutching a scarf that barely holds my wife’s scent anymore.
But at least now I know the full picture. At least now I can stop questioning Selene for leaving and start understanding why she had to.
I was a fool.
And Claudette made sure I stayed one just long enough to lose everything that mattered.
The months that follow are a study in obsession.
Three different private investigation firms are now on my payroll, each tasked with finding any trace of my wife.
Her old contacts become my new obsession, reaching out to friends and colleagues she might have confided in.
Social media monitoring. Alerts for her name.
Every rumor and lead, no matter how unlikely.
Nothing.
Selene has vanished completely, erased herself from the life we shared with surgical precision. No activity on our shared cards. No social media presence. No sightings by anyone who knows her. The divorce lawyer won’t disclose her location to me.
She doesn’t want to be found.
The realization settles into my bones, a chronic illness that is always present, impossible to cure, shaping every moment of every day. She’s out there somewhere, living a life I’m not part of, and she’s made it absolutely clear that she wants to keep it that way.
But I can’t stop looking.
Even when the investigators come up empty. Even when the leads go cold. Even when everyone around me suggests, gently and then not so gently, that maybe I should accept that she’s gone and try to move on.
I can’t.
Moving on would mean accepting that I destroyed the best thing in my life.
It would mean living without her. Admitting that I don’t deserve another chance.
So I don’t move on. I move inward instead, retreating from the career that cost me my marriage, stepping away from the spotlight I used to crave.
The studio moves on without me, someone else takes the reins, someone else manages the promotional campaign, someone else accepts whatever accolades it earns.
I don’t care anymore.
The awards can gather dust. The industry can move on without me. None of it matters when the only audience I ever really wanted to impress has stopped watching.
I spend most of my time in Selene’s old studio space now.
It’s a small room at the back of the mansion, the one she used to claim as her own before I slowly crowded her out of every creative space. There’s a desk where she used to write, a chair where she used to sit, shelves that used to hold her books and notebooks before she took them with her.
She left some things behind. A few reference books she must have decided weren’t worth packing. Some old industry magazines with her early interviews. A box of photos from the early days of her career, before she met me, before she gave it all up.
Spending hours going through these remnants, I try to piece together the woman I lost. The actress who commanded screens. The producer who shaped narratives. The creative force who had her own dreams and ambitions before I absorbed them all into my own.
I didn’t know her, I realize. The truth is undeniable. I didn’t know her in the way I should have.
I knew the version of her that existed in relation to me… my wife, my supporter, my beautiful accessory who made me look good at industry events. But the woman she was before me, the dreams she carried, the passions that drove her before she sublimated them to mine… those I never bothered to learn.
I was too busy being the center of my own universe to notice that she had a universe of her own.
Tonight, like every night, I’m lying on the floor of her studio.
The carpet is soft beneath my back, and the ceiling is blank above me, a blank screen where I project all the memories I can’t escape.
The photo in my hands shows us three years ago, at some premiere or another, both of us smiling at the camera with the easy confidence of a couple who thought they had forever.
Her face in the photo reveals nothing. Was her smile real? Or was she already starting to pull away, already feeling the walls closing in?
I can’t tell. That’s the worst part. I was so oblivious that I couldn’t even see her suffering when it was captured in photographs.
My wedding band catches the light as I shift the photo, and its silver color gleams for a moment. I haven’t taken it off. I can’t. Removing it would feel like admitting the marriage is over, and I’m not ready for that.
I might never be ready for that.
Around my neck, on a chain I had made specially for this purpose, hang Selene’s rings. The engagement diamond and the platinum wedding band, nestled against my chest, close to my heart. I wear them everywhere now. A penance, a constant reminder of what I lost and what I’d give anything to reclaim.
The photo blurs as tears well up, and I let them fall without bothering to wipe them away. There’s no one here to see. No one to perform strength for. Just me and my grief and the ghost of a marriage I destroyed through negligence.
I reach up and touch the rings through my shirt, feeling their familiar weight against my sternum.
Where are you, Selene?
Are you thinking about me at all?
Or have you already moved on, already rebuilt, already become someone new while I’m still stuck in the wreckage of who we used to be?
The questions have no answers, and the silence of the empty house offers no comfort.
I close my eyes and let the photo rest on my chest, over my heart, next to her rings.
Tomorrow, I’ll start searching again. I’ll call the investigators, check the alerts, follow up on leads that probably go nowhere.
But tonight, I’ll just lie here.
Tonight, I’ll let myself feel the full weight of what I’ve lost.
And tomorrow, I’ll keep hoping that somewhere, somehow, she’s thinking about me too.
The thought is probably just a fantasy.
But it’s all I have left.