Page 45 of The Humiliated Wife
"That's what I thought," Fiona said softly.
"I can change," Dean said desperately. "I want to change.”
"Good," she said. "You should work on that. For the next person you love."
The next person. The phrase slid under his ribs like a blade. He couldn’t picture it—couldn’t even stomach the idea.
"So that's it? Years of marriage, and you're just... done?"
"I've been done since I saw the account,” Fiona was speaking gently, as if he was the one who deserved her kindness when he had destroyed the woman he loved. It burned. "I just needed a couple of days to accept it."
When Dean looked up, her face was calm, resolved. Like she'd already moved past him. Past them.
"I won't fight you on anything,” she said gently. “The apartment, the furniture, whatever. I just want this to be over quietly."
"Fiona, please?—"
"I'm sorry, Dean. I really am. But I can't stay married to someone who doesn’t respect me.”
She turned to go back inside.
"Wait," Dean called. "What if I waited? What if I gave you time and space and proved that I've changed? Months, years, however long it takes?"
Fiona paused in the doorway without turning around.
"I can’t stop you,” she said quietly. “But wouldn’t you be happier be with someone you actually like?”
The door closed with a soft click, leaving Dean alone on the porch.
The car felt too quiet.
Dean flicked the radio on, then off again two seconds later. It all sounded wrong—too bright, too cheerful, too indifferent. Like the world had kept turning while something inside him had cracked in half.
The highway unspooled in front of him. Wet black asphalt, sharp yellow lines, the occasional flash of taillights disappearing into the rain.
He kept one hand tight on the wheel. The other sat limp in his lap, fingers twitching now and then like they wanted something to hold.
Fiona hadn’t cried.
He’d replayed it a hundred times already, and she hadn’t cried. She hadn’t yelled. She hadn’t broken. She’d just...
He could still hear her voice.
“I don’t love you anymore.”
He gripped the steering wheel, something desperate and useless rising in his chest. His eyes burned.
She was supposed to cry. He’d imagined her shaking, railing, giving himsomethingto work with. A crack in the armor.
The city skyline was still thirty miles out, a faint suggestion of gray through the windshield. His phone buzzed in the cupholder—the notification of a work email. He didn’t care. He couldn’t care. Not right now.
He thought of the list in his apartment. "Get Fiona Back"
He almost laughed.
Every item on that list had felt so actionable. So clear.
He gripped the steering wheel tighter, knuckles white. The leather was smooth beneath his palms—his stupid expensive car, his perfect life, his apartment with the art prints and espresso machine.
