Page 11 of The Humiliated Wife
"It's genuinely hilarious, sweetie." Roxanne said, and there it was—that edge. That barely concealed smirk.
Fiona looked across the room. Dean had noticed her discomfort and was watching her.
“Oh,” she said softly. She forced her lips into a smile. Her heart was thudding like it wanted to punch its way out of her ribs.
“So dumb,” Fiona added, forcing a chuckle. “I don’t even know why I remembered it the other day.”
The room moved on around her, but the people near her—Roxanne, Ava, Cam—were watching her too closely. Like they were waiting to see if she’d crack. Like she was part of the evening’s entertainment.
She sipped her drink. She tilted her head, pretended to listen to something Ava was saying. Laughed when everyone else did.
She glanced at Dean again. He was coming toward her now.
“Hey,” he said softly. “Everything okay?”
“Of course.” Her voice was high but even. She smiled wider. Her cheeks hurt. “Totally.”
He touched her arm. “Fi?—”
“You know what?” she said, feigning a yawn. “I might call it early tonight. The week caught up with me.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah,” she said lightly, “but you should stay. I’m just tired. You’re having fun.”
Dean hesitated, but nodded. “I’ll call you a car.”
“Thanks.” She touched his arm, the way a wife should, and gave a little nod to Roxanne and the others. “Thanks for the drinks.”
They smiled back, tight and toothy.
Each step away from that room was a step back toward herself.
She didn’t think Dean had told them maliciously. It must have just… come up in conversation.
Dean wouldn’t have told anyone if he thought they’d laugh at her. He wouldn’t do that. He knew how easily she bruised.
CHAPTER 6
Dean
The apartment was quiet.The bedroom light was off, but Dean could see the shape of her under the blankets, still and small.
Dean crossed to the bed quietly and peeled back the covers. She shifted but didn’t turn.
He slipped in behind her, curled around her carefully. His precious, perfect wife.
“I missed you,” he said into her hair.
Every room he walked into, he was performing. Every meeting, every rooftop bar, every dinner with people who never stopped measuring status. But here—here in this bed, in her arms—he could stop pretending. There was no script. No audience. No angle.
Just Fiona.
Dean let his hand drift over her hip, then under the hem of her sleep shirt. He kissed the back of her neck, slow and soft, the way she liked.
“I kept thinking about you all night,” he said, voice low. “Couldn’t wait to get home.”
She sighed happily, her body angling more towards his touch.
