My Movie Star Husband’s Forgotten Wife

Sebastian came back from his morning run at seven. He never came back before nine.

I was kneeling in front of the bookcase in the study. Stacks of yellowed sheet music sat around me, along with a folder of my old contracts and my passport.

He leaned against the doorframe, towel around his neck.

"Spring cleaning?"

"Something like that."

He nudged a page with his sneaker. It was my handwriting. Pencil notes, smudged from years of erasing.

"You thinking about playing again?" He smiled like he was humoring a child. "Evie, you don't need to go out and work. I can afford you."

*Afford* me.

I tucked the page into the folder. "I had a career too, Sebastian. Before you."

"Sure. And you walked away from it." He shrugged and took a sip from his water bottle. "You chose this life, Evelyn."

The folder slipped against my knee.

Eight years ago, in that freezing Boston apartment, he had cried into my lap after I tore up the Vienna letter. His shoulders had shaken so hard I thought he would break.

"I'll make it up to you," he'd said. "Every single day, I'll make it up to you."

Now he was checking his phone.

"Don't leave a mess in here," he said. "The cleaners come Thursday."

He went upstairs. I finished packing the box.

---

At noon I sat across from a woman with silver-streaked hair and reading glasses pushed up on her head.

Grace Mitchell didn't waste words.

"California is a community property state. Anything you owned before the marriage is yours. Your compositions, your royalties from before, all yours."

"And the marriage certificate? His lawyer has it."

"Then we request a certified copy from the county. It's public record, even if he's kept it quiet." She tapped her pen on the desk. "Mrs. Vale, can I say something off the clock?"

"Please."

"Eight years is a long time. But it's not a debt. You don't owe him eight more."

I laughed. It came out shaky. "My mother would have said the same thing."

"Smart woman. I'll send you a first draft by tonight."

---

My phone buzzed the second I stepped onto the sidewalk.

*Free tonight. I can do 30 min for dinner. You pick.*

I stared at it until the screen went dark.

Thirty minutes. On our anniversary. He hadn't even remembered it was our anniversary.

Still, my thumb moved. I booked a table at Lucca's, the little Italian place where he'd taken me on our first date. Back then he'd counted his change twice to pay for the wine.

At home, I pulled the white dress from the back of my closet. He'd bought it the year we married, with his first real paycheck. It still fit.

I slid an old photo into my clutch. Us, twenty-four and broke, grinning on a Boston fire escape.

One last chance. That was all I was giving it.

---

The candle on our table had burned down an inch by the time he walked in. Twenty minutes late.

"Traffic," he said, dropping into the chair. "You look nice."

"Thank you. Do you know what day it is?"

He blinked. Then he spotted the small cake the waiter had set between us. White frosting. *8* piped in gold.

"Right. Of course." He reached for my hand. "Happy anniversary, babe."

His phone rang before his fingers touched mine.

He glanced at the screen and answered right away. "Chloe? Slow down."

I could hear her through the speaker. High, breathless. Something about a lighting rig falling at rehearsal. Something about being alone.

"Stay where you are. I'm coming."

He was already standing, car keys in his fist.

"Sebastian." I kept my voice low. "Can you at least stay until we finish dinner?"

His brows pulled together. "Chloe needs me. You know she doesn't have anyone else."

"And what about me?"

He paused. For one second, I thought he might actually sit back down.

"You're stronger than she is," he said.

Then he kissed the top of my head like he was signing an autograph.

"I'll make it up to you next week. Promise."

The door swung shut behind him. The waiter hovered nearby, holding two menus and not meeting my eyes.

"Would you still like to order, ma'am?"

I picked up the knife and cut the cake myself.

"Just a fork," I said. "And the check."

---

At home, I ate the rest of the cake straight from the box, sitting on the kitchen floor in my white dress.

At ten-thirty, Chloe posted again.

The video was long. Sebastian at a piano in a dim hall. He stopped playing to tuck his jacket around her shoulders. He brushed her hair off her forehead and murmured something that made her giggle.

His phone sat face-down on the piano bench. It stayed that way the whole video.

The timestamp in the corner said she'd been recording on and off for three hours.

I set my fork down.

The flu, the winter I was twenty-six. *You're tough, Evie. You'll be fine.*

The night my father died. *You're the strongest person I know. You don't need me to fuss.*

Last week, my wrist. *My hands are insured for millions.*

Strong. He'd been calling me strong for eight years.

I'd thought it was a compliment.

---

At eleven, the front door opened.

Sebastian loosened his collar on his way into the kitchen. He didn't ask why I was on the floor. He held out his right hand.

"It's killing me tonight. Can you work on it a bit? Like you used to?"

I lifted my own wrist instead. It had swollen again, puffy and purple around the bone from cutting that stubborn cake one-handed.

"Call your physical therapist."

His hand hung in the air. "Excuse me?"

"Dr. Okafor. His number's on the fridge."

Sebastian lowered his arm slowly. His jaw worked. "Is this about dinner? Seriously?"

I said nothing.

He let out a long breath through his nose, like he was the one being patient. "Okay. Fine. Next week, I'll give you twenty minutes instead of ten. Happy?"

I rose to my feet. The cake box tipped over beside me.

"You gave her three hours," I said quietly. "And you think I should thank you for twenty minutes?"

His face went flat and cold. The same face he'd used to play a hitman.

"You've become unreasonable, Evelyn. I don't even recognize you."

"That makes two of us."

I walked past him. He didn't follow.

---

In my room, I opened my laptop.

Grace's email was waiting. *Draft Settlement Agreement — Confidential.* I saved it to my private account, the one Sebastian didn't know existed.

Then I opened the airline tab.

*New York, JFK. Departing in 3 days. Confirm purchase?*

I clicked yes.

The confirmation chimed. A second email arrived right behind it.

Gold border. Studio logo.

*You are cordially invited to the world premiere of* Unscripted: The Sebastian Vale Story.

I scrolled to the seating chart attached at the bottom.

VIP Row A, Seat 2, right beside Sebastian's name: *Chloe Bennett.*

I kept scrolling. Row after row.

There I was at last. Section F. General Admission.

Typed in small gray letters under the heading:

*Guest — No Affiliation.*