Page 43 of The Humiliated Wife
This was what he was good at—taking impossible problems and breaking them down into manageable steps. This was justanother campaign. Even if it was the most important campaign of his life.
He looked at item one. Apologize properly.
He grabbed his keys.
Time to execute.
CHAPTER 19
Fiona
Fiona was gradingpapers at Emma's kitchen table when the knock came. Confident, measured. Three deliberate raps.
Emma looked up from her laptop. "Expecting someone?"
The knock came again. She knew that rhythm. That particular pause between knocks.
"It's him," she said quietly.
Emma's face darkened. "Want me to tell him to fuck off?"
Fiona considered it. The coward's way. The safe way. But she was tired of being a coward. Tired of running from hard conversations.
"No," she said, standing. "I'll handle it."
Dean stood on the porch, straight-backed and freshly shaven like he thought posture and grooming could pass for remorse. The sight of him used to feel like coming home. Now, it just felt like bad taste.
“Fiona.” His voice was soft. Practiced. “Thank you for seeing me.”
“What do you want?” she asked, flat.
He hesitated, as if surprised by the lack of warmth. “I wanted to apologize.”
She didn’t speak. Just looked at him like he was a stranger trying to sell her something.
“I fucked up,” he said. “I was wrong. I was cruel. I took the things you trusted me with and—I exploited them. I thought I was being clever. Or charming. Or... I don’t know, relatable.”
He gave a weak laugh, looking for some shared nostalgia that didn’t exist.
“I broke your trust,” he said. “I know that. But I want to fix it. I want to be better. I’m going to do whatever it takes. I’m—doing the work.”
Fiona’s nails pressed into the meat of her palms.
He thought this was how you solved a betrayal. With homework. With self-improvement hashtags.
“I love you,” he said. “And I think, deep down, you still love me.”
Her hands clenched at her sides, nails digging into her palms hard enough to leave marks. Something cold settled in her stomach, spreading outward like ice water through her veins.
He was apologizing for the posts but his disrespect—his contempt—wasn’t a misunderstanding. He didn’t misspeak. He thought she was pathetic.
Dean wasn't sorry for thinking she was beneath him. He was sorry she'd found out.
"I want to fix this. We can work through it."
Dean's voice carried quiet certainty.
"I want to be better. For you. For us."
