11. Selene #2
“I know I failed you.” He runs a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture I recognize from our earliest days together.
“I know I put my career ahead of our marriage. I know I let Claudette…” His jaw tightens at her name.
“I know I was stupid and so caught up in my own success that I couldn’t see what I was losing. ”
“Dylan-”
“I fired her.” He rushes on, afraid I’ll walk away before he finishes. “The day you left. Well, a few days after. I figured out what she’d been doing, how she’d been manipulating things, and I threw her out. She’s blacklisted. She won’t work in this industry again.”
I should feel satisfied by this news. Vindicated. Instead, I just feel tired.
“That doesn’t change anything.”
“I know.” He nods rapidly, desperately. “I know it doesn’t. I’m not telling you because I think it fixes things. I’m telling you because I want you to know that I see it now. All of it. Everything I did wrong. Everything I should have done differently.”
“That’s… good, Dylan. I’m glad you’ve had time to reflect.”
My voice is gentle but final, the tone of someone wrapping up a conversation they’re ready to exit. Dylan clearly recognizes it, because panic flares in his eyes.
“Can we at least have dinner? Coffee? Five minutes of your time where you’re not being polite to get rid of me?
” He reaches for my hand, then thinks better of it, his fingers curling into a fist at his side.
“I’ve spent twelve months imagining this moment.
Twelve months trying to figure out what I’d say if I ever found you.
And now you’re here, and I’m botching it completely, but please…
please, Selene. Just give me a chance to apologize properly. ”
A long moment passes. This man I loved for seven years… this man I built my life around, this man I had to leave to remember who I was.
He looks sincere. He probably is sincere. Dylan was never cruel on purpose; his destruction was always collateral, the byproduct of a self-absorption so complete he couldn’t see past it.
But sincerity doesn’t undo damage.
And I’ve worked too hard to rebuild myself to let him shake the foundation now.
“If this is about the divorce settlement,” my voice drops into a professional tone, “please direct your concerns to my attorney. I believe her office sent over the final paperwork last month.”
Dylan recoils. I can see how the words hit him physically.
“I haven’t signed them.”
“I noticed.” I keep my expression neutral. “I assumed you were busy.”
“I wasn’t busy. I was hoping…” He trails off, seeming to realize how pathetic this sounds. “I was hoping you’d change your mind.”
“I haven’t.”
“Selene-”
“Thank you for coming to my screening, Dylan.” I interrupt him with the smooth authority I’ve spent a year cultivating.
The voice of a woman who knows her worth and doesn’t negotiate with anyone who questions it.
“And thank you for the kind words about the film. It means a lot to know my work is being well received.”
“That’s not why I-”
“Have a good evening.”
I step past him before he can formulate another argument, and my hip brushes against his thigh as I move. The contact is brief, accidental, but I feel him shudder at the touch.
I don’t look back.
The night air is cool against my heated skin as I push through the exit doors, and I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself.
That was fine. You handled that fine. He doesn’t get to show up and destabilize everything you’ve built just because he’s finally realized what he lost.
But my hands are shaking slightly, and my heart is racing, and the ghost of his cologne still lingers in my nostrils, mixing with the scent of my own perfume.
Warm jasmine and amber.
I’ve worn this fragrance since before I met Dylan, and I never stopped, even when everything else about me changed. It was the one constant, the one thing that was always purely mine.
I wonder if he noticed. I wonder if he’s standing in that screening room right now, breathing in the traces I left behind, the way I used to breathe in the traces of him.
Stop it.
I pull out my phone and text Maya. I’m heading out. Please handle the rest of the night.
Her response comes immediately. Everything okay?
Fine. Just tired. Long night.
I hail a car and climb inside, giving the driver my address.
It isn’t the Hollywood Hills mansion, but the small apartment I’ve been renting in Silver Lake.
It’s nothing like the luxury I left behind.
The kitchen is tiny. The bedroom barely fits a queen bed.
The view is of a parking lot instead of city lights.
I love it.
It’s mine. Completely, entirely mine. No designer chose the furniture.
No housekeeper arranges the pillows. Every book on the shelf, every photo on the wall, every coffee mug in the cabinet.
I selected each one myself, building a life that reflects who I actually am instead of who someone else wanted me to be.
The car pulls away from the venue, and I let my head fall back against the seat, closing my eyes.
Dylan’s face swims behind my eyelids. The desperation in his expression. The wedding ring still circling his finger. The way he looked at me, searching for answers I never promised.
I’ve been looking for you for a year.
I hired investigators.
I’ve been going out of my mind.
A small, treacherous part of me that I thought I’d buried wants to believe him. Wants to believe that he’s changed, that he sees now what he couldn’t see before, that maybe, just maybe, there’s still a marriage worth saving.
But I remember the anniversary dinner. The cold food and melted candles. The viral photos of him walking the red carpet with Claudette. The acceptance speech that reduced me to a housekeeper.
Thank you to my wife for keeping things running at home.
Some wounds don’t heal just because the person who inflicted them finally notices the blood.
I open my eyes and watch the city slide past my window, all those lights representing all those lives, all those people navigating their own complicated relationships.
I built a new life this year. A film I’m proud of. A career I’m rekindling. A sense of self I thought I’d lost forever.
I’m not going to let Dylan’s sudden appearance unravel any of it.
The divorce papers are still unsigned, but that’s a legal technicality. The marriage has been over for a year. Maybe longer, if I’m honest. Maybe it was over the moment I realized my husband saw me as furniture instead of a partner.
The car pulls up to my building, and I step out into the night air, taking another deep breath.
Tomorrow, I’ll call my attorney and push for the finalization. Tomorrow, I’ll refocus on distribution deals and press interviews and the career I’m rebuilding from the ashes.
But tonight…
Tonight, I’ll let myself remember what it felt like to be loved by Dylan Riego, back before everything went wrong.
And then I’ll let it go.
Because I’ve spent too long being haunted by ghosts to let one follow me home now.