Page 18 of The Humiliated Wife
Not for them. Not for him.
She could do this. She had survived worse. She’d survived classrooms full of hormonal fifth-graders.
She would survive this, too.
She looked down at her dress—the one she'd chosen so carefully, the one that had felt appropriate an hour ago. Now it felt like a costume. Like she was dressed up as someone worthy of respect while everyone else was in on the joke that she wasn't.
Fiona lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and walked out of the bathroom like she wasn’t holding her breath. Like her entire world hadn’t just shifted sideways.
She headed back toward the clinking laughter and camera flashes—heart shattered, mask intact.
CHAPTER 10
Dean
Dean slidinto the chair beside Fiona just as the servers began placing dessert—some architectural thing with chocolate and gold leaf that probably cost more than most people's grocery budget.
"Hey," he said softly, putting his hand on her back. Just that one point of contact, and the noise of the room pulled back like a tide. A quiet relief. Like air after being underwater. "Mind if I steal this seat?"
Fiona glanced at him. Her smile was wobbly.
Dean's stomach tightened, but he pushed the feeling down.
Everything was fine. She was just... processing. That's what Fiona did—she needed time to work through things. After they'd talked it through, she'd understand. She'd see that he hadn't meant any harm.
"How's the chocolate thing?" he asked, nodding toward her untouched plate.
"It's lovely." She hadn't taken a single bite.
Dean picked up his own spoon, took an enthusiastic mouthful. "God, that's incredible. You have to try it." He held the spoon toward her mouth, grinning. "Come on, live a little."
Fiona turned her head slightly. "I'm not really hungry."
Dean set the spoon down, his hand moving to rest on her thigh. She didn't pull away, but she didn't lean into his touch either. It was like touching a mannequin.
It was instinct—muscle memory. His anchor. Touching her had always been the thing that made the world tilt back into place.
But right now, there was no ease in it. No warmth rising to meet him. Just the hollow press of fabric and silence.
"Fi," he said, lowering his voice. "Are you okay? You seem?—"
"I'm fine." That same smile. "Just tired. It's been a long night."
Cam tried to pull him into a story about a disastrous client presentation, gesturing wildly with his wine glass. Everyone was laughing—the kind of loose, champagne-drunk laughter that came at the end of successful evenings.
Dean forced himself to chuckle along, but his attention kept drifting back to Fiona. The way she sat perfectly straight, hands folded in her lap. The way she nodded at appropriate moments in conversations but never actually engaged.
She looked... porcelain. Beautiful and fragile and completely untouchable.
"Ready to get out of here?"
She nodded without looking at him.
Dean wrappedhis arm around Fiona’s waist as they exited the banquet hall, guiding her through the glittering crowd with exaggerated care. His voice was low and soothing, murmuring things like“Almost done,”and“Let’s get you home.”She didn’t resist, didn’t speak—just let herself be led like a guest at her own funeral.
His stomach twisted. But this could be fixed. Ithadto be.
He opened the car door for her. Once she was seated, he went around the car and slid in, shutting the door with a thud, sealing them inside the quiet.
