Page 132 of The Humiliated Wife

Maybe that's what Peterson Hardware needed too. Not clever wordplay or aspirational lifestyle messaging. Just honesty. Just the truth about what they offered - reliable tools for people who built things, fixed things, made things work.

"How's the mighty fallen," came a voice behind him.

Dean turned. Cam stood there with his arms crossed, that familiar smirk playing at his lips.

“Local hardware?" Cam continued. "Rough landing, man. From luxury cars to... what, screwdrivers?"

"Actually," Dean said, closing the folder, "I'm looking forward to it."

Cam's smirk faltered slightly. "Seriously?"

"Yeah. These people have been serving their community for forty years. That's more authentic than anything we've worked on recently."

"Jesus, you really have lost it." Cam shook his head. "This martyr act isn't a good look, Dean. Roxanne was right - you're making a mistake."

Dean leaned back in his chair, studying Cam's face. This man's approval had once mattered to him. This whole crowd's approval had mattered. He'd shaped himself around their expectations, their definition of success.

"The only mistake I made," Dean said quietly, "was thinking any of this mattered more than going home to someone who loved me."

Cam's expression shifted, something uncomfortable flickering behind his eyes. "Come on, man. Don't tell me you're still hung up on?—"

"Her name is Fiona," Dean interrupted. "And yes, I'm still hung up on my wife. I'll always be hung up on my wife."

Dean turned back to his computer and started typing notes about Peterson Hardware. Honest work for honest people. No awards, no industry recognition, no bragging rights at rooftop bars.

Just enough income to keep taking care of the woman he'd failed, in the only way she'd let him.

It was the best work he'd done in years.

Dean stoodat the kitchen counter in Russell and June’s house, making dinner for the couple who had taken him in without judgment.

He was slicing basil when his phone buzzed.

Dean stared at the message for a long time. It didn’t hurt the way he’d expected — no sharp sting, no cinematic crash. Just a quiet sinking. Like gravity remembering him.

He walked back to the stove and turned off the burner. The sauce kept bubbling for a few seconds before settling. The kitchen was suddenly too quiet.

He sat at the table, phone still in his hand. Scrolled back up. Read it again.

The divorce paperwork had been filed.

He leaned back in the chair and stared at nothing in particular.

His thumb brushed the edge of the phone absently.

He thought of their wedding.

He’d been such an idiot.

He’d hired the trendiest planner he could find—some high-demand boutique team with a waitlist and a signature aesthetic. It had all been sleek and editorial and nothing like Fiona. Minimalist florals, industrial edge, place cards written in gold.

Fiona had smiled through it, because of course she had. Because she didn’t ask for much. Because she thought the point was marrying him, not curating a mood board.

At the time, he’d told himself he was uplifting her. That he was giving her the best.

What he’d actually done was make the day about himself. About how it looked. About how itreadto other people. Not about how it felt to her.

If he could marry her again?—