Page 121 of The Humiliated Wife
She picked up her coffee mug, now lukewarm, and wondered if love was supposed to feel this lonely.
CHAPTER 54
Dean
Dean adjustedthe camera strap around his neck, the lens still warm from use. The morning sun hit the elementary school's courtyard at the perfect angle—clean light, honest light. He’d already captured half a dozen candid shots of teachers leading activities, students drawing with sidewalk chalk, a few frames of a third-grade reading circle. Real moments. Real people.
He crouched near the edge of the garden beds, framing up a photo of two students inspecting a tomato plant.
“Mr. Photographer,” someone joked behind him. “You ever do weddings?”
Dean chuckled without looking up. “Only if the flower girl promises not to cry.”
He snapped two more shots. Adjusted aperture. Reframed.
The district PR coordinator had practically begged him to help. “Just one morning,” she’d said. “Everything we have looks like a brochure from 1998.”
He’d agreed, easily. It felt good to be useful.
He straightened up and turned toward the staff entrance—and stopped.
Fiona.
She was halfway down the path, tote bag over one shoulder, hair pulled up in a quick bun. She was clearly mid-conversation with another teacher but stopped short when she saw him. Her whole body froze, eyes wide.
Dean's breath caught in his throat. He hadn’t expected her here—not at this school. Not today. Not now.
But God, she looked beautiful. Serious and sunlit, her brow furrowed in confusion. And then—something else. The realization. That he wasn’t just loitering. That he was working. Helping. Giving back to her world.
He lifted the camera slowly, giving her a moment to object. She didn’t.
Click.
Fiona blinked.
Click.
He couldn’t stop himself. He took photos of the other teachers too, sure—one of the music instructor laughing with a student, another of the janitor high-fiving a kid who’d just tied their shoes on their own.
But Fiona?
He took dozens.
Hundreds.
Just a month ago, he’d stood beside Fiona at a gallery opening, handing her a drink and smugly whispering about some poor guy taking endless photos of his girlfriend.
Now? He’d give anything—anything—to be the one Fiona trusted to hold the lens. To follow her through her life like a shadow with reverence in his shutter finger. To be allowed to document her small, glorious dailiness.
She looked over her shoulder at something, and he caught the curve of her neck in profile. She knelt to adjust a kid’s backpack strap—click. She tilted her head at a question, brows knitting in thought—click. She laughed when one of her students made a joke—click, click, click.
Every expression. Every shift in light. Every time she forgot he was watching her and just... existed.
She finally walked over when the students were dismissed to class. “You’re doing photography now?”
“Not professionally,” he said, lowering the camera, trying not to sound breathless. “Just… helping the district.”
Her expression didn’t change, but something in her shoulders softened.
