13. Selene
— ? —
Selene
The man has absolutely no concept of boundaries.
It’s been two weeks since Dylan showed up in my lobby with those ridiculous peonies, and somehow, impossibly, he’s become a permanent fixture in my professional life.
Not in a demanding way, not in a way that makes me feel smothered or controlled.
He’s become a very persistent piece of furniture that I keep tripping over.
Every morning when I arrive at the office, he’s already there.
Sitting on the small sofa in the corner of my workspace that I definitely did not give him permission to occupy, holding a fresh bouquet of white peonies and a thermal container that smells suspiciously like home cooking.
“Good morning, wife.”
I grit my teeth and set my bag down on my desk, refusing to acknowledge the flutter in my chest at the greeting. “I’ve told you not to call me that.”
“You’ve told me a lot of things.” Dylan unfolds himself from the sofa with the easy grace of a man who’s made himself entirely too comfortable. “I’ve decided to be selectively deaf to the ones that contradict my mission.”
“Your mission being to annoy me into reconciliation?”
“My mission being to remind you every single day that I’m here, I’m not going anywhere, and I’m willing to wait as long as it takes.
” He sets the thermal container on my desk, right next to the vase that’s been holding his daily flower offerings.
“I made breakfast. That frittata you used to love, with the goat cheese and sun-dried tomatoes.”
I eye the container suspiciously. “You made it?”
“With my own two hands.” He holds them up for inspection, and small cuts scatter across his fingers.
It’s not the first time I’ve noticed them.
Knife wounds, probably, from someone who’s been teaching himself to cook.
Someone who used to have personal chefs for everything and is now standing in a kitchen, bleeding into his cutting board, just to bring me breakfast.
I pretend not to notice.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You haven’t eaten since yesterday afternoon.” He nudges the container closer. “I called Maya. She told me you worked through dinner again.”
“Maya needs to learn to keep her mouth shut.”
“Maya is concerned about you. So am I.” He opens the container, and the smell that wafts out is genuinely incredible. Golden eggs studded with vegetables, still steaming, exactly the way I like it. “Just try a bite. If you hate it, I’ll never cook for you again.”
We both know that’s a lie. He’ll be back tomorrow with something else, another offering at the altar of my reluctant attention.
I pick up the fork he’s provided and take a bite, fully prepared to fake indifference.
The problem is, it’s actually delicious.
The eggs are perfectly fluffy, the cheese is tangy without being overwhelming, and the sun-dried tomatoes add exactly the right amount of sweetness.
It tastes like something a professional chef would make, not something assembled by a man who probably had to Google “how to crack an egg” two weeks ago.
“Well?” Dylan watches me with barely concealed hope.
I chew slowly, deliberately, letting him sweat.
“It’s acceptable.”
His face falls for just a second before he catches himself. “Acceptable. I’ll take acceptable.”
“Don’t get excited. Acceptable is not the same as good.”
“But it’s better than terrible, which is what you said about the pasta last week.” He settles back onto his claimed sofa, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Progress is progress.”
I take another bite, then another, telling myself I’m only eating because I’m hungry, not because he made it for me, not because watching his face light up with each forkful makes my chest explode a bit.
“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” I ask between bites. “A career to run? Films to direct? Industry events to attend?”
“I’ve delegated.” He stretches his legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankle. “Turns out, the studio can function without me micromanaging every detail. Who knew?”
“Everyone. Everyone knew that, Dylan.”
“Well, now I know it too.” He grins, unrepentant. “Which means I have plenty of free time to spend in your office, making sure you eat breakfast.”
I want to be annoyed. I should be annoyed. This man abandoned me emotionally for years, forgot our anniversary, publicly humiliated me at the Academy Awards, and now he thinks he can waltz back into my life with frittatas and flowers?
But the thing is… he’s different.
The Dylan I left would never have sat quietly in a corner while I worked. He would have demanded my attention, made the space about him, treated my career as secondary to whatever he needed in the moment.
But this version of him brings me food and disappears with a book. He asks about my day and actually listens. He remembered that I hate coffee after noon and now shows up with perfectly brewed tea instead.
It’s disorienting. It’s frustrating.
It’s making it very hard to keep hating him.
I’m halfway through reviewing the latest cut of our promotional materials when Dylan’s voice cuts through my concentration.
“Wife.”
The word sends an involuntary jolt through my system, and before I can stop myself, my head lifts to look at him.
He’s standing beside my desk now, closer than I realized, his dark eyes fixed on my face with an intensity that makes my pulse stutter.
“What?” I manage, hating how breathless I sound.
Dylan flashes a knowing smile, like he’s fully aware of the effect he’s having on me. He leans in, his hand coming up to cup my face with a gentleness that contrasts sharply with the heat in his gaze.
“You have-” His thumb brushes across my lower lip, and every nerve ending in my body comes alive at once. “Some crumbs. Right here.”
I should pull away. Remind him that he doesn’t have the right to touch me like this anymore, that we’re not together, that just because I’m letting him camp out in my office doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven him. The instinct to slap his hand away rises, then fades.
I remain frozen, mesmerized by the way his eyes darken as his thumb traces the curve of my mouth.
He brings his thumb to his own lips and licks it clean.
My heart is pounding so loud I’m certain he can hear it.
“There.” His voice is low, almost a purr. “All better.”
I open my mouth to call him out, to tell him that was completely inappropriate and manipulative and exactly the kind of move that used to work on me back when I was naive enough to think his charm meant he actually cared.
A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts.
“Ms. Vance?” Maya pokes her head in, looking apologetic. “Sorry to interrupt, but we have a problem with the promotional campaign.”
I tear my gaze away from Dylan, grateful for the interruption even as part of me wants to scream at the timing. “What kind of problem?”
“The distribution partner is having budget concerns. They’re threatening to reduce our marketing spend by forty percent unless we can come up with additional funding.
” Maya’s face is pinched with worry. “I’ve been running the numbers, and if they cut the budget that much, we won’t have enough for the festival circuit push. ”
The festival circuit. The one chance my film has to reach a wider audience, to build the kind of buzz that could turn it from an indie darling into a genuine success.
“How much do we need?” I’m already moving toward my desk, pulling up spreadsheets and projections. “To maintain the original plan?”
“About two hundred thousand. Maybe more, depending on how aggressive we want to be with the international markets.”
Two hundred thousand dollars I don’t have. My entire budget for this film was self-funded, scraped together from savings and small investors who believed in my vision. I’ve already stretched every resource to its limit.
“Okay.” I take a breath, forcing myself to think strategically instead of panicking. “What are our options? Can we negotiate with the distributor? Find alternative funding sources?”
“I’ve reached out to a few potential investors, but at this stage, most people want to see box office numbers before they commit. And the distributor is pretty firm on their position. They like the film, but they’re not willing to take on more financial risk.”
I nod, my mind racing through possibilities.
This is the part of independent filmmaking they don’t tell you about in film school.
The constant scrambling for money, the creative compromises forced by budget constraints, the reality that even the best art can die a quiet death if no one can afford to show it to the world.
“Let me think about it.” I dismiss Maya with a wave. “I’ll figure something out.”
She retreats, closing the door behind her, and I slump in my chair, staring at the numbers on my screen without really seeing them.
This was supposed to be my triumph. My proof that I could build something beautiful on my own, without Dylan’s money or influence or name. And now it’s all going to fall apart because I can’t afford to tell people it exists.
“Selene.”
I’d almost forgotten he was there.
Dylan moves to stand behind my chair. His heat presses against my back, solid and present. He leans over my shoulder to look at the screen, and his proximity makes it hard to concentrate on the numbers.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I demand, but my voice comes out weaker than intended.
He’s so close that when he turns his head, his nose almost brushes mine. I can see the individual flecks of gold in his dark eyes, can count his eyelashes if I wanted to.
I don’t want to. Obviously. I’m just… noticing things. Objectively.
“Let me fund your promotion, wife.”
The words take a moment to register. When they do, I pull back sharply, putting distance between us.
“No. Absolutely not.”
“Selene-”
“This is my film, Dylan.” I stand up, needing to move, needing to not be sitting down while he looms over me as if he’s some benevolent benefactor. “My project. My vision. I built it without you, and I’ll figure out how to promote it without you too.”