Page 72 of The Humiliated Wife
Dean.
She stared at the number, her groceries forgotten on the bagging shelf.
“Everything okay?” the cashier asked.
Fiona nodded slowly, mechanically.
She gathered her things and walked outside into the cold air, the bag of groceries tucked under one arm.
Fiona stood on the sidewalk, heart pounding. She should be angry. Shewasangry. He didn’t get to fix things with money. He didn’t get to pretend generosity could rewrite the past.
But also?—
Also—
She exhaled slowly.
It didn’t feel like control. It felt like support.
She wasn’t going to spend it. Not yet. Not until she was sure. But she wasn’t giving it back either.
She needed breathing room.
And now, she had it.
CHAPTER 30
Dean
The burnt officecoffee tasted like it had been sitting in the pot since yesterday. Dean grimaced and tried to focus on a client brief, eyes scanning the same sentence three times without processing a word. His brain was a blur of numbers, regret, and the memory of Fiona’s last social media post.
A knock on the door.
His assistant poked her head in, face unreadable. "There's someone here to see you," she said, her voice carefully neutral. "Says it’s personal."
Dean’s heart tripped over itself.
For one reckless, impossible second, his mind lit up like a flare. Fiona.
Maybe she'd come. Maybe she’d read the apology post, seen the money transfer, heard about the meeting blow-up. Maybe this was it—her, showing up not to forgive him, but just… to talk.
He stood, too fast. His chair scraped the floor.
And then?—
A man stepped into view. Cheap suit. Receding hairline. A manila envelope clutched in one hand.
Dean's hope crashed like glass on tile.
"Dean?" the man asked.
"That's me."
The man stepped forward and held out the envelope. "You've been served."
Dean's coffee mug slipped from his suddenly nerveless fingers, hot liquid splashing down his white dress shirt and across his desk, soaking into the client briefs he'd been reviewing.
"Shit," he muttered, grabbing for napkins as scalding coffee dripped onto his lap.
