Page 21 of The Humiliated Wife
But now… she didn’t even know who he was.
Someone who respected you didn’t do this.
Someone who cared about you didn’t let the world mock you behind your back and call it affection.
She turned off the bathroom light and stepped into the dim hallway. Her bare feet moved soundlessly toward the bedroom.
She still hadn’t figured out what came next. But she knew one thing with a clarity that cut through the haze:
She couldn’t be married to someone who didn’t respect her.
And tonight, Dean had made that painfully clear.
Every object felt contaminated.The coffee mug with her lipstick stain—had he photographed that? The throw pillow she'd fluffed before leaving—was that "content" too? She moved through their space like a crime scene investigator, seeing potential violations everywhere. She saw the childish, silly additions she’d made to his apartment—the novelty magnets on the fridge, the cozy blanket, the calendar with gold star stickers. She wasn’t sleek like him. She was earnest. Whimsical. Embarrassingly sincere.
Heat spread from her cheeks down her neck in blotchy waves.
Dean looked up as she entered the room.
The bedroom was dim, the only light coming from Dean’s side of the bed—his phone casting a pale blue glow across the sheets and the sharp angle of his jaw. He was half under the covers, one arm propped behind his head.
“Hey,” he said, like everything was fine.
Fiona stood in the doorway for a moment, watching him.
Just another night. Just another bedtime.
Twenty-three thousand people knew about her childhood lie, her fear of butterflies, her belief that cookies could solveproblems. They knew the shape of her vulnerability better than her own family did. She'd been involuntarily intimate with strangers for years.
She crossed the room quietly, the carpet soft beneath her feet. Her pajamas felt like armor now—thin and worn, but familiar. Hers.
She pulled back the sheets, slipped in beside him without touching.
She faced the ceiling. Her pulse was loud in her ears.
Dean set his phone down on the nightstand and rolled toward her, propping himself up on one elbow.
“You know I didn’t mean to hurt you, right?” he asked softly, brushing a strand of hair off her face. His touch burned.
“I just wanted people to see how funny you are. How real.” He was trying to spin the story—reshape the narrative until it fit something he could live with. “You’re the best part of my day, Fi. You always have been.”
Fiona finally turned to face him.
Her voice came out quiet, but steady. “Do you even like me, Dean?”
He blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
“All those things you posted,” she said. “Do you think I’m dumb? Do your friends?”
He laughed, too quickly. “Of course not. It’s a joke, Fiona.”
She didn’t smile. “I wasn’t in on the joke.”
Dean exhaled, already frustrated. “You’re making this a bigger deal than it is.”
“I don’t think I am,” she said.
They stared at each other in the dark.
