16. Dylan
— ? —
Dylan
The red carpet stretches before us, a river of flashing lights and shouting journalists creating a wall of sensory overload that I’ve walked through a hundred times before.
But tonight feels different.
Tonight, my hand is at Selene’s waist. Where it belongs, where it should have been at every event for the past seven years. I’m not letting go for anything.
“Ready?” I lean down to murmur in her ear, my lips brushing the delicate shell.
She takes a deep breath, her shoulders squaring beneath the white silk of her dress. “Ready.”
We step onto the carpet together, and the response is immediate. Cameras swing toward us instantly, and the shouted questions begin before we’ve taken three steps.
“Selene! Dylan! Over here!”
“Ms. Vance, how does it feel to have your directorial debut premiere at a major festival?”
“Dylan, is it true you funded the promotional campaign for your wife’s film?”
I guide Selene toward the first photo station, keeping my touch light but constant. This is her night, her moment, and I’m determined to make sure she feels supported without feeling overshadowed.
“You’re doing great,” I whisper as we pose for the photographers. “Just ignore them and let them see how stunning you are.”
“Easier said than done when they keep shouting questions about you.”
“Occupational hazard of being married to Hollywood’s most eligible reformed idiot.”
She snorts, and the cameras capture her genuine laugh, which is so much better than any posed smile could be.
We work our way down the carpet, Selene fielding questions about her film with the confidence and poise that first made me fall in love with her.
She’s brilliant at this. So articulate, giving the journalists exactly enough access while maintaining professional boundaries.
I hang back slightly, letting her take center stage, only stepping forward when directly addressed.
It’s a dance I should have learned years ago.
About halfway down the carpet, a voice rises above the others.
“Dylan! Dylan Riego! This is the first time we’ve seen you on a red carpet with a date since the Academy Awards. The last time was with Claudette Vance, your former co-producer and your wife’s stepsister. Care to comment?”
Selene stiffens beside me, her hand tightening almost imperceptibly where it rests on my arm. She shifts her gaze away, and I can practically see her retreating behind those walls she’s worked so hard to lower over the past few weeks.
Not tonight. Not ever again.
I stop walking, which causes a ripple of confusion among the photographers who were expecting us to continue past. The journalist who asked the question looks surprised to have actually gotten my attention.
I take Selene’s hand firmly in mine and turn to face the press directly.
“You’re right.” My voice carries clearly over the ambient noise. “The last time I walked a red carpet, it wasn’t with my wife. It was with someone who had no business being there, and I made that choice because I was too blind to see what I was doing to the woman I love.”
The carpet has gone eerily quiet. Even the photographers have lowered their cameras, sensing that something significant is happening.
“That was a mistake on my part.” I meet the journalist’s eyes unflinchingly. “The biggest mistake of my life, actually. And it cost me the most important person in my world.”
I feel Selene’s fingers squeeze mine, but I don’t look at her yet. I need to say this, need to put it on record in front of witnesses, need to make sure everyone knows exactly where I stand.
“From now on, you will only see me with my wife. Whether it’s a red carpet or a random coffee shop or a Tuesday afternoon grocery run, Selene is the only person I want beside me.” I pause, letting the words sink in. “I was foolish before. I won’t be foolish again.”
A small smile curves Selene’s lips, and she tugs gently at my hand, pulling me toward the venue entrance.
But I’m not quite done.
I turn back to the assembled press, and my voice drops harder now, more authoritative.
“One more thing.” I wait until I have their full attention.
“Please do not disrespect my wife like that ever again. Not behind our backs. Not in front of my face. She has earned every ounce of success she’s achieved tonight, and she doesn’t deserve to have her moment undermined by questions about my past failures. ”
The journalist who asked the original question looks appropriately chastened. Several others are furiously typing notes, no doubt already drafting their articles about Dylan Riego’s public declaration.
Let them write whatever they want. As long as Selene knows the truth, nothing else matters.
“Now.” I turn back to my wife, offering her my arm with exaggerated formality. “Shall we go celebrate your film?”
Her eyes are shimmering slightly, but her smile is radiant. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I believe we’ve established that.” I guide her through the entrance, leaving the chaos of the red carpet behind. “Ridiculously in love with you, specifically.”
***
Selene
The inside of the venue is a whirlwind of industry professionals, all of them wanting a moment of my time.
Dylan stays close but not intrusive, his hand at the small of my back as I navigate conversations with distributors, fellow filmmakers, and the occasional journalist who managed to secure inside access.
He doesn’t try to dominate the discussions or redirect attention to himself.
He just… consistently supports. Quietly.
It’s disorienting, having him be exactly the partner I needed him to be years ago.
“Selene!” A producer I’ve worked with before approaches with a champagne flute in hand. “Congratulations! The early reviews have been phenomenal. I always knew you had it in you.”
“Thank you, Patricia.” I accept her air kiss with practiced grace. “It’s been a long road, but I’m proud of what we accomplished.”
“We should talk about your next project. I have a script that would be perfect for your sensibilities.” She glances at Dylan, her expression cooling slightly. “Mr. Riego.”
“Ms. Kaplan.” Dylan’s tone is polite but reserved. “Lovely to see you.”
There’s history there, I can tell. Some professional slight or personal disagreement that I’m not privy to. But Dylan doesn’t elaborate, and Patricia moves on after exchanging contact information with me.
“Old friend of yours?” I murmur as we drift toward our table.
“She wanted to poach one of my editors a few years back. I may have been… less than diplomatic in my refusal.”
“You threatened to blacklist her entire post-production team, didn’t you?”
“It was a strongly worded suggestion about professional boundaries.”
I laugh despite myself. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, here you are.” He pulls out my chair for me, waiting until I’m seated before taking his own spot beside me. “Stuck with me for the foreseeable future.”
“We’ll see about that.” But I’m smiling as I say it, and his answering grin tells me he knows I don’t mean it.
The ceremony begins, and I try to focus on the presentations, but my mind keeps drifting back to what Dylan said on the carpet.
The most important person in my world.
I was foolish before. I won’t be foolish again.
For so long, I’ve been waiting for him to prove that his words are more than pretty speeches. For so long, I’ve been guarding myself against the possibility that he’ll revert to the man who forgot our anniversary and thanked another woman from the stage.
But tonight, he chose me publicly. He defended me to the press. He’s sitting beside me right now, his attention fixed on the stage even though nothing happening up there affects his career at all.
He’s here because I’m here. That’s it. That’s the only reason.
It’s such a simple thing, and yet it means everything.
“Hey.” Dylan leans close, his breath warm against my ear. “You okay? You seem distracted.”
“Just processing.”
“Good processing or bad processing?”
I turn to look at him, really look, taking in the concern in his eyes, the way his hand has found mine under the table without me even noticing.
“Good,” I decide. “Definitely good.”
His face relaxes into a smile. “Good. Because I’m pretty sure your category is coming up, and I need you focused so I can watch you accept your well-deserved accolades.”
“You’re very confident I’m going to win.”
“I’m confident in you.” He brings my hand to his lips. “Always.”
We’re about an hour into the ceremony when I spot her.
Claudette is standing near the bar, a champagne glass in hand, looking polished in a silver dress that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. She’s scanning the room with the calculating gaze of someone looking for an opportunity.
When her eyes land on our table, she smiles.
It’s the same smile she gave me in the studio that day. The same triumphant expression she wore when she told me to go back to cleaning my mansion.
My stomach turns.
“Dylan.” I keep my voice low. “Don’t look now, but-”
“I see her.”
His tone has gone flat in a way I haven’t heard since the day he found my divorce papers. His hand tightens on mine, and the muscle in his jaw works.
“Let’s just ignore her,” I suggest. “This is my night. I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of ruining it.”
“Agreed.” But his eyes track her as she begins making her way toward our table, her path deliberately casual, like she’s just happened to notice us while wandering the room.
She reaches us just as a lull falls between presentations.
“Dylan!” Her voice is bright, carrying the performative warmth of someone who’s very aware of the people around them. “What a surprise! I didn’t realize you’d be here tonight.”
Dylan doesn’t stand. Doesn’t offer his hand. Doesn’t give her any of the social courtesies that would suggest she’s welcome.
“Claudette.”