Page 38 of The Humiliated Wife
And no apology could change the fact that she had been truly vulnerable with him and he had taken those moments, that private, precious gift, and sold it to strangers for scraps of attention.
That wasn’t a mistake.
That was a choice.
And he had made it a hundred times.
If he wanted to be the kind of man Fiona once thought he was—the man she’d married with stars in her eyes and trust in her hands—he’d have to burn down everything that got him here.
And start again from ashes.
CHAPTER 17
Fiona
Fiona stood behind her desk,watching her class quietly scribble through their grammar packets. Pencils scraped paper. Erasers squeaked. Every now and then, a student would raise a hand, and she’d nod or walk over, voice low and steady. Calm. In control.
On the outside, she looked like any other teacher managing a calm post-reading lesson.
But inside?
Inside she was on fire.
Her fingernails bit into her palm as she clutched the edge of her desk, knuckles white. Rage pulsed through her like electricity. Static crackled in the space between her teeth.
He made her ajoke.
She’d thought marriage meant permanence. Something solid. Something chosen every day, even when it was hard. She had believed—truly—that they were building something that would outlast mistakes.
She’d been so wrong.
So now here she was. Pretending everything was fine. Smiling at Ava when she asked how to spell “beginning.” Nodding when Elijah wanted to share a fun fact about octopuses.
As if she wasn’t actively imagining setting Dean’s laptop on fire.
She looked down at her hand—her bare left ring finger. It felt obscene, that absence.
She’d given him everything. Her love. Her loyalty. Her stupid, soft-hearted belief that he was the kind of man who wouldprotectwhat she gave him.
But he hadn’t protected it. He’d packaged it. Branded it. Sold it off in tiny increments for likes and laughs and high-fives from his asshole coworkers who’d never liked her anyway.
“Ms. Fiona?”
Fiona startled. Lucas was standing by her desk, holding up his worksheet.
“There’s no more room in the margins. Can I use the back?”
She nodded. “Of course, honey.”
He smiled and turned away, and Fiona could barely hear over the rush in her ears.
Her jaw ached from clenching it.
She was so angry she could barely breathe.
Angry at Dean. Angry at herself for loving him. Angry thatthis—this quiet betrayal stretched out over months—had broken her when she was supposed to be strong.
She wanted to scream. To throw something. To drive to his office and read every single one of his smug little posts aloud until he crumbled under the weight of what he’d done.
