Page 130 of The Humiliated Wife

Fiona curled her arms around herself, hugging her elbows, trying to stay grounded.

He sees me now, she thought.

And that was both everything she’d wanted and everything she wasn’t sure she could trust.

She took a deep breath, slow and steady.

She wasn’t that girl anymore either. The one who bent herself into shapes to be easy to love. The one who thought affection was the same as safety.

Fiona wiped under her eyes with the edge of her sleeve.

Fiona stepped forwardand Dean's head snapped up. His face transformed—relief, hope, love.

He was wearing the faded concert tee from the boyband she’d dragged him to see, years ago. The one he’d teased her for loving. It tugged something in her chest she didn’t know was still tethered.

"Fiona." He was already standing, moving toward her chair before she'd even reached the table. "Thank you for coming. I wasn't sure—" He pulled out her chair.

She sat, hyperaware of his proximity, his body, the way he hovered until she was settled.

"Can I get you something? They have that wine you like—the Pinot Grigio. Or maybe something warm? It's cold out." His words tumbled over each other, eager and anxious.

“Wine is fine."

He flagged down the server immediately, ordering her drink.

The folder sat between them.

"What's that?" she asked.

He took a deep breath. "It's for you. I mean—it's about you. Your account. Your platform." He opened it carefully, revealing pages of notes, printouts. "Fiona, if you wanted to you could really reach people. Change lives."

She stared down at the pages. Professional layouts, engagement analytics, content calendars. It was thorough.

"I could take your photos," he continued, the words rushing out. "Handle all the technical stuff. Editing, posting schedules, responding to comments. You wouldn't have to think about any of it. You could just focus on being yourself, and I could—I could make sure the world sees you the way you deserve to be seen."

There was something heartbreaking in his earnestness. The way he leaned forward, hands gesturing as he walked her through follower growth projections and brand partnership possibilities.

"If you'd let me do this—if you'd let me help—I could show you that I understand now. What matters. Who you are."

Fiona touched the edge of one of the pages. The work was good. Really good. She could tell he’d spent time on this, thinking through every detail.

"I don't want this," she said softly.

Dean's face fell, but he nodded quickly. "Of course. I understand. That makes sense. I could recommend someone else, though. There are other photographers who?—"

"No, Dean." She looked up at him. "I don't want to scale up. I don't want brand partnerships or follower growth or any of it."

He blinked, confused. "But you're so good at it. Your posts—they're real. Authentic."

"I share what I want to share, when I want to share it. I'm not trying to build an empire. That's not why I post." Fiona closed the folder gently. "I post because sometimes I have something to say. Because sometimes I want to connect with people. But I don't want it to become a job."

"Oh." His voice was small. "I thought—I thought maybe if I could prove I understood your value?—"

"This isn't about proving anything." She reached across the table, almost touching his hand before pulling back. "I don't need a million followers to matter. I don't need brand deals to validate my worth. I just need to be respected by the people I care about.”

Dean slumped back in his chair.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I'm still getting it wrong."