Page 17 of The Humiliated Wife
Fuck,Dean thought, his jaw clenching as he maintained his stage smile.Why did his director have to run his mouth like that?
The account wasn't supposed to be public knowledge. Well, notthispublic. Sure, people in the industry followed it, but it was supposed to stay in their circle. Discrete. Professional networking with a personal twist.
It wasn't that bad. The account wasaffectionate. Funny. People loved her—that was the whole point. She was charming in hersimplicity, endearing in her naivety. The comments that called her sweet far outweighed anything mean.
He watched her skirt around the edge of the room and disappear into the ladies’ room.
Dean's smile felt like it was carved from stone as the applause started up again. Someone was shaking his hand. Someone else was asking about photo ops.
She'd been smiling at him minutes ago. Glowing.
Now she couldn't even look at him.
All he wanted was to follow her. To wrap his arms around her in that way that always made her melt against him, her face tucked into his neck like he was home. To smooth her hair and whisper that he loved her, that she was perfect, that none of this mattered.
He wanted to take her home and show her exactly how much he adored every ridiculous, beautiful thing about her. Make her forget whatever she'd seen, whatever had put that terrible stillness in her shoulders.
But for now he had an award to accept and a room full of people expecting him to play his part.
He stepped forward for another handshake, his public face sliding back into place, already planning how he'd make this right.
CHAPTER 9
Fiona
The bathroom doorswung closed behind her, sealing her off from the glittering noise of the banquet hall. It was bright in here—too bright.
Fiona gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles white.
She stared at her reflection.
The woman in the mirror looked like a fool. A mark. Someone so desperate to fit in that she'd missed every signal, every smirk, every knowing glance.
Her breathing turned shallow, rapid. The bathroom felt smaller suddenly, the walls pressing in. She was trapped—not just in this marble-and-gold prison, but in her own humiliation. Every person out there knew. They'd been watching her make a fool of herself for months, maybe years, while she smiled and tried to fit in and never understood why their laughter felt so sharp.
Shit Fiona Says.
The handle of the account slammed through her mind like a door being kicked in. It was still echoing.
How many stories, how many photos, how many moments had he handed over for them to laugh at?
How many dinners had she sat through while they grinned behind their glasses, already knowing what her husband really thought of her?
She inhaled through her nose, sharp and fast. Her chest was too tight. The kind of tight that made her feel like she might splinter apart.
A toilet flushed behind her. Someone exited a stall, high heels clicking across tile.
Fiona immediately dropped her gaze to her clutch, fumbling with the zipper like she was looking for lip balm. Anything to seem composed. Anything to seem normal.
“Are you okay?” the woman’s voice asked.
Fiona smiled without looking up. “Fine. Just fixing my lipstick.”
The woman washed her hands and left without another word.
Fiona straightened up again once she was alone. Forced herself to meet her own eyes in the mirror. Her reflection wavered—like glass beneath pressure—but it didn’t break.
You don’t cry in here, she told herself.
