Page 135 of The Humiliated Wife
“I’m allowed.”
Fiona was jugglingher keys and a bag of groceries when she nearly collided with Harold in the lobby.
"Oh! Ms. Fiona!” Harold's face lit up like Christmas morning. The building manager was in his sixties, with the kind of eager energy that suggested he lived for moments like this. "Perfect timing. I was just thinking about you."
"Hi, Harold," Fiona said, shifting the bag to her other arm. "Everything okay?"
"More than okay! That husband of yours—" Harold caught himself, his expression flickering with uncertainty. "I mean, your... well, I wasn't sure what to call him now, with the... situation."
Fiona's stomach dropped. "What about Dean?"
"Oh, he's such a thoughtful man. Really. You don't see that kind of devotion anymore." Harold was warming to his subject now, hands gesturing animatedly. "Setting up that whole arrangement like he did. Very thorough. Very organized."
"What arrangement?"
Harold blinked, as if just realizing she didn't know. "Oh. Oh my." He glanced around the empty lobby, then leaned in conspiratorially. "He's been taking care of everything. The maintenance requests, the utility bills, even asked me to keep an eye on you. Make sure you're comfortable."
The grocery bag slipped in her grip. "He what?" Fiona felt dizzy.
"Right after you moved back in. He was very specific about it—any repairs you needed, any problems at all, I was to handle it immediately and send him the bill." Harold's expression grew more serious. "He also asked me to call him if anything seemed wrong. If you seemed upset or if anyone was bothering you."
Fiona's head was spinning. Dean had been orchestrating her safety, her comfort, her entire living situation from the shadows.
"He loves you very much," Harold continued, oblivious to her distress. "I've been managing this building for fifteen years, and I've never seen a man so concerned about his wife's wellbeing. Even gave me his new address, just in case." Harold patted his shirt pocket. "Very responsible."
In the elevator, Fiona leaned against the wall and closed her eyes.
Dean hadn't just given her the apartment. He'd wrapped an entire support system around her without her knowledge. He was still taking care of her, still protecting her, still being her husband in every way he still could.
But what did that mean? What was she supposed to do with that information?
Her chest felt tight with a cocktail of emotions she couldn't untangle—gratitude and fury and something more.
The elevator dinged at her floor, but she didn't move.
She was tired of not knowing. Tired of sitting in this apartment he'd given her, surrounded by care he'd arranged, wondering what any of it meant. Whether he was just guilty or whether this was something else. Something real.
She needed answers. Not from Emma or Marcy or her own spiraling thoughts.
From him.
Fiona stoodon the porch of a house she'd never seen before, feeling foolish. The address Dean had left with the building manager was scrawled on a piece of paper in her hand, now damp from her sweaty palm.
She shouldn't be here. She should be home, processing her feelings like a rational adult. Instead, she was standing outside a stranger's house, furious and confused and desperate for something she couldn't even name.
The door opened before she could knock.
A woman with kind eyes and graying hair pulled back in a loose bun smiled at her, and Fiona felt a flicker of recognition.
"Fiona," the woman said warmly. "I'm June. Dean's told us so much about you."
Fiona recognized her then. The woman from the banquet. The woman who had been kind enough to show her the social media account when the rest of the room had been happy to just laugh at her.
“Dean’s in the kitchen." June stepped aside, gesturing her in. "Fair warning—he's baking something that smells like heaven but looks like a science experiment."
Fiona followed June through a cozy living room filled with family photos and well-worn furniture. The house smelled like cinnamon and butter and something else—something that made her stomach clench with memory.
She found Dean standing at the kitchen counter, flour dusting his forearms, a mixing bowl cradled against his chest. His hair was sticking up like he'd been running his hands through it, and there was a smudge of something on his cheek.
