11. Selene
— ? —
Selene
The screening room fills slowly, industry professionals drifting in with their champagne flutes and their carefully curated small talk.
I stand near the back, watching them settle into their seats, and I have to remind myself to breathe. This is my film. My vision. The first project that’s been truly mine in nearly a decade, made on a shoestring budget with a skeleton crew and more passion than resources.
And somehow, against all odds, it’s become the indie darling of the season.
“Selene, the trades are already calling it a masterpiece.” My assistant, Maya, appears at my elbow with a tablet full of reviews. “Three more distribution offers came in this morning. Everyone wants to talk to you.”
“After the screening.” I smooth down the front of my deep green dress, a color I chose specifically because Dylan always said it wasn’t flattering on me. It turns out he was wrong about that too. “Let’s see how this audience reacts first.”
“They’re going to love it.” Maya squeezes my arm. “You made it incredible.”
I want to believe her. Part of me does believe her.
The part that watched the final cut and felt, for the first time in years, like I recognized myself.
But there’s another part, the part that spent five years being told I was better suited to domestic support than creative work, that still whispers doubts in my ear.
What if they hate it?
Am I not cut out for this anymore?
What if you left everything behind for nothing?
I shake off the thoughts and focus on the room.
The seats are almost full now, an impressive turnout for an indie screening on a Tuesday night.
I recognize faces from my past life, producers I used to work with, directors I once called colleagues, industry players who probably wrote me off the moment I became “Dylan Riego’s wife” instead of “Selene Vance, rising star.”
Tonight, I’m Selene Vance again.
And I intend to remind them what that name used to mean.
The lights dim, and I slip into a seat near the exit, wanting to watch the audience more than the film itself.
I’ve seen it a hundred times by now. I know every frame, every cut, every moment where I fought with my cinematographer about lighting and won.
What I don’t know is how strangers will receive it.
Whether the story I poured my heart into will resonate with people who have no investment in my personal journey.
The opening credits roll, and I hold my breath.
Directed by Selene Vance.
My name on the screen, unattached to anyone else’s. Not “Mrs. Riego.” Not “Dylan’s wife.” Just me, claiming my work with the authority I should never have surrendered.
The film unfolds, and I watch the audience instead of the screen.
They lean forward during the tense moments.
Scattered laughter echoes through the hall at the dark humor I wove through the narrative.
There are tissues being passed during the emotional climax, a scene I rewrote seventeen times because I needed it to be perfect.
They’re engaged. They’re moved. They’re experiencing exactly what I wanted them to experience.
The vindication is sweeter than I expected.
Ninety-four minutes later, the credits roll, and the applause begins.
It starts slow, hesitant, the way industry audiences always clap. They’ve seen too many films to be easily impressed. But then it builds, growing stronger, accompanied by murmurs of genuine appreciation.
“Brilliant.”
“Where has she been all these years?”
“That third act was extraordinary.”
I stand near the exit, accepting congratulations from people who drift toward me, their praise washing over me, warming me from the inside.
For the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel like myself.
Not someone’s wife or someone’s decoration.
Just a woman who made art and is finally being seen for it.
“Ms. Vance, the emotion in that final scene… wow. How did you achieve such authenticity?”
I smile at the journalist who’s managed to corner me. “I wrote what I knew. Sometimes the best art comes from the hardest experiences.”
“Is it autobiographical? The themes of invisibility in marriage, of losing yourself to support someone else’s dreams-”
“I think those themes are universal.” I keep my voice light, deflecting with the ease of someone who’s spent years navigating invasive questions. “Anyone who’s ever loved someone can relate to the fear of disappearing inside that love.”
The journalist opens his mouth to follow up, but Maya materializes at my side with perfect timing. “Ms. Vance has other guests to greet. Perhaps we can schedule a formal interview later this week?”
I flash Maya a grateful smile and turn to the next cluster of well-wishers, letting the rhythm of industry networking carry me forward.
This is what I was born for. This energy, this creative communion, this feeling of having contributed meaning to the world. I’d almost forgotten how good it felt.
I’m in the middle of a conversation with a distribution executive when I feel it.
A prickle runs down the back of my neck. The sensation of being watched with an intensity that cuts through the ambient noise of the room.
I turn, scanning the crowd, and my heart stops.
Dylan is standing near the back of the room, frozen in place, staring at me in utter disbelief.
He looks terrible.
That’s my first thought, cutting through the chaos of emotions his presence triggers.
Dylan Riego, golden boy of Hollywood, looks like a man who hasn’t slept properly in months.
He’s thinner than I remember, his cheekbones sharper, shadows carved beneath eyes that track my every movement with desperate intensity.
He’s also still wearing his wedding ring.
The observation lands somewhere complicated in my chest. It’s not quite pleasure, not quite pain, just a dull ache that I thought I’d moved past.
Apparently, I haven’t.
I force myself to turn back to the distribution executive, to continue the conversation I was having as if my entire world hasn’t just tilted on its axis. “The international rights are still being negotiated, but we’re optimistic about European distribution.”
“Wonderful. I’ll have my team reach out to discuss terms.”
“I look forward to it.”
The executive drifts away, and I’m left standing alone, acutely aware of Dylan making his way through the crowd toward me.
I could leave. I could slip out the exit and avoid this confrontation entirely.
I’ve spent a year building a life that doesn’t include him, and I don’t owe him a single moment of my time.
But the woman I’ve become doesn’t run from difficult conversations.
So I stay where I am and let him come to me.
“Selene.”
His voice washes over me, deeper than I remember, rougher. Maybe he’s been doing too much drinking or too much screaming or both. I turn to face him with a polished smile that reveals nothing.
“Mr. Riego.” I keep my tone professionally pleasant, the way I’d greet any industry acquaintance I haven’t seen in a while. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”
An emotion flickers in his eyes at the formal address.
Pain, maybe. Or surprise. “I saw your name on the screening schedule.” His voice is rough.
“A year of nothing, and then there it was - Selene Vance. I told myself I’d just sit in the back, that I wouldn’t come near you. But I couldn’t stay away.”
He breaks off, swallowing hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the effort.
“It was incredible,” he manages. “The storytelling. The way you handled the emotional beats. The third act structure was…” He shakes his head, seemingly at a loss for words. “You’ve always been brilliant, but this is extraordinary.”
The compliment lands awkwardly between us. Once, his praise would have meant everything to me. I would have glowed under his approval, would have filed away his words to replay during moments of self-doubt.
Now, it just feels hollow.
“Thank you for saying so.” I keep my voice neutral, professional. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“Selene…” He steps closer, and I catch a whiff of his cologne. It’s the same one he’s worn for years, the scent I used to bury my face in when we held each other. “Can we talk? Properly, I mean. Somewhere private. There’s so much I need to say to you.”
He struggles with his words. This man who used to command rooms with his presence, who delivered acceptance speeches to standing ovations, who never seemed to lack for confidence in any situation.
He looks lost now. Desperate. As if he’s been drowning for a year and has finally spotted land.
Part of me wants to throw him a lifeline.
A much larger part remembers all the times I was drowning and he didn’t even notice.
“I appreciate the sentiment.” I smooth my expression into polite refusal. “But I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Please.” The word comes out cracked, broken. “I know I don’t deserve it. I know I don’t deserve anything from you. But I’ve been looking for you for a year, Selene. I hired investigators. I called everyone we knew. I’ve been going out of my mind, not knowing where you were, whether you were okay-”
“I’m fine.” I cut him off, not unkindly but firmly. “As you can see.”
“You’re more than fine.” His eyes rove over me, drinking in every detail with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. “You’re… God, you’re glowing. You look happier than I’ve seen you in years.”
“That’s because I am happier than I’ve been in years.”
The blunt words land between us, and I watch him absorb the blow. His face crumples for just a moment before he masters himself, but I see it. The realization that my happiness came from leaving him.
“I’m glad.” His voice is barely above a whisper. “Even if it… I’m glad you’re happy, Selene. That’s all I ever wanted for you.”
“Is it?”
The question slips out before I can stop it, sharper than I intended. Dylan flinches like I’ve struck him.