Page 57 of The Humiliated Wife
He'd destroyed the best thing in his life and now he was reduced to this—watching her from a distance like the creep he'd apparently always been.
She was what he wanted in his life. The woman that lit up classrooms and calmed nerves and made shy kids brave. The kind that used kindness like armor and carried the world on her soft, stubborn shoulders.
She didn’t look back. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t glance around like she was missing something.
Because she wasn’t.
Of course she wasn't missing anything. Why would she miss the man who'd turned her into a joke? He was nothing. Less than nothing.
She had her students. Her friends. Her healing. Her new social media account full of truth and heart and kindness.
And he had… regret. The heavy kind. The kind that sits on your chest and makes you say things like,“I should have…”“I didn’t know….”
This was what he'd mocked. This dedication. This sweetness. This woman who stayed late to make sure every child felt seen.
Christ, he was disgusting.
Dean watched as she hefted her bag over her shoulder, and walked toward the faculty parking lot. Her movements were efficient but unhurried. Practiced. She belonged here, in this world of construction paper and juice boxes and small humans who needed someone to believe in them.
He'd never belonged in her world. Not really. He'd just convinced himself he was sophisticated enough to appreciate it ironically.
But there was nothing ironic about the way she'd loved him. Nothing detached about the trust she'd placed in him. Nothing cool about the way she'd given him every vulnerable piece of herself and asked for nothing but respect in return.
Dean pressed his forehead against the steering wheel.
He'd been so proud of his detachment. His ability to observe and comment and stay above it all. He'd thought that made him smart. Sophisticated. Better than people who felt things too deeply.
But watching Fiona now—seeing her in her element, doing work that mattered—he realized the truth:
She was everything he'd pretended to be too cool for. And she was everything he'd ever wanted to be.
Kind without irony. Genuine without shame. Present without performance.
She'd never needed to be cool. She'd never needed detachment. She had something better—purpose, connection, the ability to make the world softer just by existing in it.
And he'd traded that for likes from strangers who would forget her the moment they scrolled past.
Fiona reached her car—his car—and paused. For a second, Dean's heart stopped, thinking she'd seen him. But she was just checking her phone, probably a text from Emma or a reminder about groceries.
Normal life. Moving on.
She got in the car and drove away, and Dean sat there in the empty parking lot, surrounded by the ghosts of everything he'd destroyed.
He wasn't cool. He wasn't detached. He wasn't above anything.
He was just a man who'd had everything and thrown it away because he was too scared to admit he needed it.
Too scared to admit that being loved by Fiona was the only thing that had ever made him feel real.
Dean kept his eyes on the road Fiona had driven done. But she was already gone.
Dean puthis head on the steering wheel and took a couple of deep breaths. The car still smelled faintly like her chapstick and the air freshener she'd hung from the rearview mirror.
He pulled out his phone. His thumb hovered over the app.
Just do it. Just fucking do it.
The account blinked up on the screen.
