Page 91 of The Humiliated Wife
When Emma emerged an hour later, she looked radiant. The blue dress fit perfectly, her hair was loose and soft around her shoulders, and she was wearing the smile of a woman who felt beautiful.
"How do I look?" Emma asked, spinning once.
"Like Milo's the luckiest man alive," Fiona said.
And as she watched her sister float out the door on Milo's arm—she felt pure, uncomplicated happiness for someone she loved.
It was enough. For tonight, it was enough.
The multipurpose roomwas already buzzing when Fiona clipped her name badge to her cardigan. Posters lined the walls, each one proudly scrawled with crooked letters and glitter glue. A table near the door was stacked with handouts and sign-in sheets.
She took a deep breath. Smiled. This was her domain. Organized chaos, overachieving poster boards, the faint scent of dry-erase markers—home.
Parents and community members filtered in slowly—some wide-eyed, some bored, a few clearly there only out of obligation. She floated from one conversation to the next, talking curriculum, reading levels, class field trips.
She was mid-sentence with a kind-looking mom when a too-familiar voice cut through the crowd.
“Well, well. Look who’s running the show.”
Fiona’s stomach dipped.
She turned slowly.
Troy Granger. Dark blazer, button-down open at the neck, like he was dressing for a date rather than a school event.
“Mr. Granger,” she said evenly.
He held up his hands, mock-innocent. “Right. Forgot we’re beingprofessional.”
The mom beside her drifted away nervously, sensing the shift.
“I’m here for Marcus,” Troy said. “Just being a supportive dad. You know how it is.”
His eyes skimmed over her. “You look good.”
Fiona forced herself to stay calm. “There are sign-in sheets by the table if you want to fill one out.”
He leaned in slightly. “You always this frosty with the other parents, or just the ones who ask you out?”
Before Fiona could respond, another voice—quiet, firm, unmistakably male—cut in behind her.
“She said no.”
Troy straightened. His eyes flicked past her shoulder. “And you are?”
Dean stepped up beside her, holding a tablet under one arm like he’d just come from setting up the projector. He didn’t look angry. Just solid. Steady.
Fiona’s breath caught. She hadn’t even realized he was here.
“I’m the guy who’s going to tell you one more time to walk away,” Dean said evenly. “And after that I’m going to stop being polite about it.”
Troy gave a half-laugh, half-scoff. “Jesus. What, are you her bodyguard now?”
“No,” Dean said. “Just someone who respects her boundaries. You should try it sometime.”
Something in his tone—low, even, unimpressed—made Troy finally pause. He glanced back at Fiona, like he expected her to step in.
She didn’t.
