13. Selene #2
“I’m not trying to take control.” He holds up his hands, placating. “I’m trying to help.”
“By throwing money at my problems? By swooping in to save the day like you’re still the big important director and I’m just your little side project?”
The accusation lands harder than I intended, and Dylan flinches. Good. He should flinch. He should understand why this feels like a trap.
“That’s not what this is.” His voice is quiet, careful.
“I’m not trying to buy you back. I’m not trying to make you dependent on me again.
I just…” He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated.
“You spent years sacrificing yourself for my career. You gave up opportunities, delayed projects, put your own dreams on hold so I could chase mine. And I never appreciated it. I never even acknowledged it.”
He moves closer, slowly, giving me space to bolt if I need to.
“Let me give back a fraction of what I took.” His warm hand comes up to rest on my shoulder. “Not as a favor you’ll owe me. Not as a transaction. Just as… penance. Or an apology. Or whatever you need it to be.”
Every rational part of me screams to push him away. I should tell him that I don’t need his guilt money, that I’ll find another way, that accepting his help would undermine everything I’ve built.
But his breath is warm on my neck, and when he chuckles softly at my continued silence, I feel the vibration of it all the way down my spine.
“I’m not buying you back, Selene.” His lips brush my shoulder through the thin fabric of my blouse, just barely, just enough to make me shiver.
“I know I can’t buy what I lost. I know it has to be earned.
” He lets his lips linger. My body trembles despite every instinct screaming at me to maintain control.
“This is just me, trying to support you the way you supported me for all those years.”
His lips press a light kiss to my shoulder, and my breath hitches audibly.
“Please, wife.”
I should say no.
Every rational part of my brain is screaming at me to say no, to maintain the boundaries I’ve so carefully constructed, to protect myself from the possibility of becoming dependent on him again.
But Dylan isn’t pushing. He’s not demanding or guilting or manipulating. He’s just standing there, his lips still warm against my shoulder, waiting for me to decide.
And the truth is… the film deserves better than to die in obscurity because I was too proud to accept help.
I spent years making myself small so Dylan could be big. I gave and gave and gave, and he took without even realizing he was taking. Now he’s offering to give something back, no strings attached, and my pride is the only thing standing in the way.
Slowly, almost involuntarily, I lean back against him.
Dylan inhales sharply, like he wasn’t expecting me to yield even this much. His arms come up around me, not confining, just… there. Present. Supporting.
“I hate you.” The words come out as a mumble, directed at no one in particular.
Dylan traces his nose along my cheek, and I feel him smile against my skin.
“I know.” His voice is tender, so different from the dismissive tone he used to take with me. “I hate me too, sometimes. For everything I put you through. For being so blind that I couldn’t see what I was losing.”
I close my eyes, letting myself feel this for just a moment. The warmth of him at my back. The gentle pressure of his arms around me. The way he’s making himself small to fit into my space instead of demanding I fit into his.
“The money is a loan.” I keep my voice firm, businesslike, even though my heart is racing. “I’ll pay back every cent once the film turns a profit.”
“It’s a gift.”
“It’s a loan, or it’s nothing.”
He sighs against my hair. “Fine. It’s a loan. No interest. No timeline. You pay me back when and if you can.”
“Those aren’t real loan terms.”
“They’re the only terms I’m offering.” He presses another kiss to my temple, barely there. “Take it or leave it, wife.”
Arguing seems pointless. I should negotiate better terms, ones that don’t feel quite so much like accepting charity from the man who broke my heart.
But I’m tired, and the film needs this money, and Dylan’s arms are warm around me, and for the first time in a very long time, I don’t feel like I’m fighting this battle alone.
“Fine.” The word comes out softer than I intended. “But this doesn’t mean anything.”
“Of course not.”
“This doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you.”
“I wouldn’t expect it to.”
“And you’re still not allowed to call me wife.”
He laughs, and the sound rumbles through his chest and into my back, spreading warmth through places I thought I’d frozen over.
“Whatever you say.” He turns me gently in his arms until we’re facing each other, and his eyes are so full of hope that it makes my chest ache. “Thank you for letting me help.”
“Don’t make me regret it.”
“I won’t.” He lifts my hand to his lips and presses a kiss to my knuckles, the same gesture he made in the lobby two weeks ago. “I promise you, Selene. I won’t.”
I want to believe him.
God help me, I’m starting to believe him.
And that terrifies me more than anything else.