Page 122 of The Humiliated Wife

“You took a lot of photos of me.”

“I take a lot of photos of things I don’t want to forget.”

She looked down, then back up. “This isn’t enough.”

“I know,” he said softly.

She nodded once and turned to go.

Dean watched her walk back into the building, already missing her.

He raised the camera again.Click.

Dean satat his laptop in Russell and June's kitchen, the memory card reader blinking softly as hundreds of photos loaded onto his screen. The district coordinator had asked for thirty, maybe forty usable shots for their website and promotional materials.

He had over three hundred.

Most of them were of Fiona.

He scrolled through them slowly, his chest tight with something between longing and shame. Fiona laughing with a student. Fiona kneeling to tie someone's shoe. Fiona in profile, sunlight catching the escaped strands of hair around her face.

She was radiant in every single frame. Completely herself, unguarded, beautiful in the way that came from caring deeply about something that mattered.

Two years ago, he would have posted these without asking. Would have chosen the angles, written clever captions, turned her genuine moments into content for strangers to consume. He'd thought he had the right to share her with the world because she was his wife, his muse, his entertainment.

The memory made him physically sick.

He opened a new email, attached a folder of the general school shots—teachers, students, facilities. Clean, professional images that told the district's story without exploiting anyone's privacy.

Then he created a separate folder. Just the photos of Fiona. He hesitated for a long moment before typing:

Fi,

I took promotional photos for the district today. I have several shots that include you that would be perfect for their marketing materials—you look incredible, and they really capture what great teaching looks like.

But I will not use a single image of you without your explicit permission. I'm attaching the photos I'd like to include in the district portfolio. Please let me know which ones, if any, you're comfortable with me submitting.

You have complete right of refusal. If you don't want any photos of yourself used, I'll submit only the general shots. If you want to see the full district portfolio before I send it, I'm happy to share that too.

I never want to make decisions about your image again without your consent.

-Dean

He attached the folder and hit send.

CHAPTER 55

Fiona

Fiona satcross-legged on her bed—their bed—laptop balanced on her knees, staring at the folder of photos Dean had sent. Twenty images, each one more beautiful than the last.

Was this really how he saw her?

In every shot, she looked... beautiful. Professional. Engaged. Like someone who belonged exactly where she was, doing exactly what she was meant to do. Her face was animated as she spoke with students, her posture confident as she moved through her classroom space. She looked like a teacher who commanded respect, not someone to be pitied or mocked.

It was so different from the version of herself she'd seen through the lens of @shitfionasays—the naive, bumbling small-town girl who said ridiculous things and wore childish socks. That Fiona had been a caricature, all wide-eyed wonder and embarrassing earnestness.

This Fiona looked like a woman who knew her worth.