15. Selene
— ? —
Selene
The dress options are spread across my bedroom in a fabric explosion, silk and satin and tulle draped over every available surface.
My stylist, Marina, is in full crisis mode, holding up options and discarding them with the rapid-fire efficiency of someone who’s dressed A-listers for decades.
“The emerald is stunning but too safe. The black is elegant but forgettable. The red is a statement, but do you want to make that statement tonight?”
I rub my temples, trying to focus. “I want to look like someone who directed a film that’s about to premiere at a major festival. Confident but not desperate. Artistic but accessible.”
“So, everything and nothing. Very helpful, darling.” Marina holds up a champagne-colored gown with a dramatic train. “What about this one? It photographs beautifully.”
“Too bridal.”
“You’re not wrong.” She tosses it aside and dives back into the rack.
From his claimed spot on my sofa - yes, I have a sofa now, a proper one that he picked out and had delivered last week without asking, and I let him because I was too tired to argue - Dylan watches the proceedings with an expression of contentment.
“I like the blue one,” he offers. “The one with the low back.”
Marina and I both turn to stare at him.
“The man has taste,” Marina says, surprised. “That’s Valentino. Very bold choice.”
“I have my moments.” Dylan stretches his arms along the back of the sofa, looking entirely too comfortable in my space. “Besides, Selene looks incredible in blue. It brings out her eyes.”
Heat creeps up my neck, and I turn away before either of them can see it. “The blue is too formal for a film festival. I need something that says ‘indie darling,’ not ‘red carpet veteran.’”
“You are a red carpet veteran,” Dylan points out.
“I’m reinventing myself. Keep up.”
His phone buzzes, and I watch from the corner of my eye as he glances at the screen. His brow furrows slightly, and he excuses himself to take the call in my hallway, his voice too low for me to make out the words.
I try to focus on Marina’s latest suggestions, but my attention keeps drifting toward the doorway where I can see Dylan’s silhouette, his posture growing increasingly tense as the conversation continues.
When he returns, his expression is carefully neutral, but I’ve learned to read the signs of stress in the set of his jaw, the slight tightening around his eyes.
“Everything okay?”
“Fine.” He settles back onto the sofa. “Just a small issue at the studio.”
“What kind of issue?”
He hesitates, clearly debating how much to tell me. “There’s been an emergency on set. Something with the practical effects rig. They’re saying it could cost millions if we don’t address it immediately.”
My stomach drops. This is exactly the kind of crisis that would have consumed him entirely a year ago. The kind of emergency that would have sent him racing out the door without a backward glance, leaving me alone with my half-made plans and hollow promises.
“You should go.” The words come out automatically, a reflex born from years of coming second to his career. “This is important.”
Dylan meets my eyes, and something in his expression makes my breath catch.
“No.”
“Dylan, if it’s millions of dollars-”
“Maya.” He doesn’t look away from me as he calls for my assistant. “Could you bring me my phone?”
Maya appears in the doorway, looking uncertain. “Mr. Riego?”
“My phone. Please.”
She retrieves it from wherever he set it down and hands it to him. Dylan dials without looking at the screen, his eyes still locked with mine.
“James? It’s Dylan.” He pauses, listening. “Yes, I heard about the situation. I need you to take lead on this.” Another pause. “No, I’m not available tonight. Transfer the call to the other executives and handle it with the production team.”
I can hear the voice on the other end growing agitated, the words indistinct but the tone unmistakable. Crisis. Emergency. Needs you here now.
Dylan’s jaw tightens, but his gaze never wavers from mine.
“My wife’s premiere is tonight.” His voice is calm, absolute, brooking no argument.
“That is my only priority, so I expect you to handle this with the production team. I have complete faith in your abilities. Call me only if the building is literally on fire, and even then, try to put it out yourselves first.”
He ends the call and sets the phone face-down on the cushion beside him.
The room is silent except for the rustle of fabric as Marina pretends to be very busy organizing the dress rack.
The flush spreads from my neck to my cheeks, heat blooming across my skin. He just put his entire production at risk. He just told his studio that millions of dollars in potential losses were less important than watching me try on dresses.
A year ago, I would have been lucky to get a distracted kiss before he ran out the door.
Now he’s sitting on my sofa, choosing me over everything I used to compete with.
“You didn’t have to do that.” My voice comes out rougher than intended.
“Yes, I did.” Dylan’s tone is matter-of-fact. “Tonight is your night. I’m not missing a single second of it.”
I need to do something with my hands before I do something stupid like cross the room and climb into his lap. I grab the nearest dress from the rack. A white and crystal-studded dress that Marina was saving for last, and retreat toward the dressing area.
“I’m going to try this one.”
“Need help with the zipper?” Dylan’s voice follows me, warm with amusement.
“I can manage.”
I cannot, as it turns out, manage.
The dress is beautiful. A white column of silk that hugs my curves before flaring slightly at the knee, the bodice covered in hand-sewn crystals that catch the light with every breath. It’s sophisticated, exactly the kind of statement piece that says I’ve arrived and I’m not going anywhere.
The problem is the zipper.
It runs from the small of my back to just below my shoulder blades, and no matter how I contort my arms, I cannot get a proper grip on the tiny pull.
Marina stepped out to take a call five minutes ago, and I’ve been standing here like an idiot, twisted into increasingly uncomfortable positions, getting progressively more frustrated.
I could call for Maya.
I should call for Maya.
Instead, I hear myself say, “Dylan? Could you come help me?”
The words are out before I can second-guess them, and I immediately regret everything. This is a bad idea. This is such a bad idea. The last thing I need is Dylan’s hands on my bare back while I’m wearing a dress that makes me feel like some kind of bridal sacrifice to the fashion gods.
But it’s too late to take it back, because he’s already at the doorway, and the look on his face when he sees me makes my mouth go dry.
“Holy shit.” The words seem to escape him involuntarily.
“The zipper.” I gesture vaguely over my shoulder. “I can’t reach.”
Dylan moves toward me slowly as though I might shatter if he moves too fast. I’m standing in front of the full-length mirror in the corner of my bedroom, and I watch his reflection as he stops just behind me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body.
“Turn around.”
His voice is lower than usual, roughened at the edges. I turn, presenting him with my back, acutely aware of every inch of skin exposed by the gaping dress.
His fingers find the zipper, and for a moment, that’s all he does. Just holds the pull, not moving, barely breathing.
“Dylan?”
“Give me a second.” His voice is strained. “I’m trying to remember how to work a zipper when my brain has completely short-circuited.”
A laugh escapes me, unexpected and genuine. “It’s not that complicated. You pull it up.”
“I know how zippers work, Selene. I’m just…” He exhales slowly. “You’re not making this easy.”
The zipper slides up, tooth by tooth, and I feel the dress tighten around me with each increment. But when the pull reaches its destination at my shoulder blades, Dylan doesn’t step away.
His hands settle on my shoulders, warm and heavy, and I watch in the mirror as he pushes my hair to one side, exposing the curve of my neck.
“There.” His voice is barely above a whisper. “All zipped.”
He doesn’t move.
Neither do I.
In the mirror, I can see his eyes trailing down my reflection, taking in the way the dress clings to my body, the crystals sparkling against the white silk, the exposed line of my throat where my pulse is visibly hammering.
“Dylan…” I’m not sure if it’s a warning or an invitation.
He bends his head and presses his lips to the curve of my neck, just below my ear.
The sensation sends electricity shooting down my spine. My gaze transfixes on the mirror, as he kisses his way along my shoulder, his mouth warm and deliberate against my skin. His hands slide from my shoulders to my waist, his palms flattening against my stomach through the thin fabric.
“I missed you, wife.” The words are murmured against my shoulder, vibrating through my skin. “I missed touching you. I missed the way you taste. I missed watching you come apart under my hands.”
I should stop this. We haven’t had any conversation about what we are now, whether we’re rebuilding toward something or just coexisting in this strange limbo. We haven’t discussed the divorce papers still sitting unsigned on his desk, or the future that remains undefined between us.
But his hands are sliding down to my hips, his fingers tracing the curve of my thighs through the silk, and rational thought is becoming increasingly difficult to maintain.
“We can’t…” My voice breaks as his teeth graze my earlobe. “Marina could come back any second.”
“I locked the door.” His grip on my hips tightens, pulling me back against his chest. I can feel the hard length of him pressing against my lower back. The evidence of how much he wants me sends a fresh wave of heat pooling between my thighs. “I told her you needed privacy to decide.”
“That’s presumptuous.”