Page 127 of The Humiliated Wife

The concert t-shirt. Faded black cotton with the logo of the aging boyband Fiona loved—the kind of music he'd never admit to enjoying in front of his colleagues. The shirt was soft from too many washes, stretched out from wear.

He pulled it on.

The memory hit him immediately: Fiona dancing beside him at the concert, completely unselfconscious, singing every word with tears in her eyes because she was so happy. How she'd grabbed his hand during the slow songs and looked at him like he'd personally arranged the stars for her entertainment.

He'd bought the shirt at her insistence, rolled his eyes when she insisted they take a selfie together both wearing them. But later, when she wasn't looking, he'd caught himself humming one of their songs in the shower.

The concert had been... fun. Christ, he could admit that now, when there was no one left to impress. It had been pure, ridiculous, joyful fun. The kind of night that made his chest feel light and his face hurt from smiling.

The kind of night where he got to be himself instead of the version of himself that belonged in conference rooms.

Dean looked at himself in the mirror again. The boyband shirt was wrinkled, the logo cracked with age.

For the first time in too long, he looked like someone Fiona might have recognized.

Someone she might have loved.

On the bed behind him sat the folder—the strategy he’d built for her over the last 72 hours. It wasn’t a presentation. It wasn’t a pitch. It was a tribute. A blueprint for the world to see what he now saw so clearly.

He grabbed it and tucked it under his arm like something sacred.

He was nervous, yes. But more than that—he was excited. To see her. To show her. To say:I see you. I believe in you.

Dean grabbed his keys and headed for the door, not caring who saw him dressed like this. Not caring what anyone thought.

He wasn’t trying to impress anymore. He was just trying to be real.

The real Dean was finally showing up.

The bar was onlythree blocks from their apartment—Fiona’s apartment now. She’d agreed to meet him here tonight, just for a few minutes. Just to hear him out.

The folder rested neatly on the table beside his whiskey. He'd reviewed its contents too many times already, but still opened it again. Inside: the strategy. Pages of notes and visuals and careful thought, all laid out like offerings at an altar.

This wasn't a pitch. This was a gift.

He checked the time again. He was twenty minutes early.

Of course he was early.

He'd get to see her. The woman he loved. The woman he wished he could be worthy of. The folder in front of him wasn't a ploy or a proof of worth—it was simply the best way he knew how to say: I see you. I believe in you. You deserve the world.

The heavy wooden door swung open, bringing with it a gust of evening air. Dean looked up, hoping to see Fiona and heart lifting in anticipation—only to feel it plummet.

Roxanne in an impossibly stylish leather jacket. Ava trailing beside her in designer jeans. Cam and Jared bringing up the rear.

Their eyes lit up when they spotted him, and without invitation, Roxanne and Jared slid into the seats across from him while Ava claimed the spot beside him. Cam dragged over a chair from the neighboring table, the legs scraping against the floor.

"Well, well," Roxanne said, looking delighted. “The ex-hubby. Tell me, how is our favorite sock-wearing, sticker-collecting Pollyanna doing these days? Still saving the children one glitter glue stick at a time?"

Cam snorted. "Remember when she used to pack you those little lunch notes?” He pitched his voice higher, mocking. “‘You're exactly where you're supposed to be.' Like you were in kindergarten."

Dean's hands clenched into fists under the table. Those notes had been the best part of his day. Fiona's careful handwriting, her unwavering belief that he was good even when he didn'tfeel it. She'd written them because she loved him, because she wanted to lift him up.

And he'd turned even that into a joke for these parasites.

Roxanne's grin sharpened. "It's giving content, if you ask me. If you ever want to revive the account?—"

"Stop," Dean said loudly.