Page 133 of The Humiliated Wife

Christ. His whole body reacted just to the idea of it.

His throat tightened, his chest burned. He’d never understood the phrase until now—wanting something so badly it hurt. It was an ache that lived in the bone.

If he could marry her again, it would be in her parents’ backyard. String lights and paper flowers. Lemonade in pitchers. Decorations made by her class of fifth graders.

He sat there, holding the phone.

He had signed the papers. He’d made the bank transfer. He’d let her go the way she asked.

He was no longer Fiona’s husband. She was no longer his wife.

CHAPTER 61

Fiona

Fiona layflat on her back in bed, eyes wide open in the dark.

The apartment was still. Quiet in that particular, oppressive way that made every tiny sound feel magnified—water ticking in the pipes, the hum of the refrigerator, the whisper of wind against the windows. Normally, this stillness soothed her. Tonight, it pressed down on her chest like a weight.

The bed didn’t help.This bed. Their bed.

The one where they’d once tangled legs and whispered about the future. The one where he’d loved her, and made love to her, and slept next to her.

She turned over for what had to be the thirtieth time, twisting the blanket around her legs.

She closed her eyes. Tried to summon sleep. Instead, she heard Dean’s voice. Defending her, celebrating her.

The words replayed uninvited, softer in memory than they’d sounded in the bar. But they still made her chest throb like a bruise. It wasn’t relief she felt. It wasn’t pride.

It was confusion. Ache. And something deeper, thornier.

She’d heard him declaring things she hadn’t known he’d even noticed. Fighting back against the people he used toinviteto laugh at her.

He’d stood there, bare and cracked open, calling her kind, important, brave.

She turned over again, kicking the blanket off completely.

That wasn’t the Dean who had smiled politely while his friends made snide remarks. That wasn’t the Dean who had turned her into a joke online.

It was someone else. Or maybe… he was finally brave enough to be the man she had thought he was all along.

Fiona pressed her hand over her chest, fingers splayed like she could hold her heart in place. The ache wasn’t clean. It was messy and tangled. Not because she didn’t believe him—but because some part of her did.

That part was the problem.

The part that still loved him. The part that wanted to believe love could be enough. The part that ached for the sound of his voice saying things he never said when it would’ve mattered most.

She didn’t want to be wrong again.

Her eyes burned, but she didn’t cry. Not tonight. She was too tired. Too raw.

The morning lightsoftened the edges of the apartment. Fiona sat curled on the couch, legs tucked under her, a half-finished cup of tea balanced on her knee. Her laptop glowed on the coffee table, displaying Emma and Marcy’s familiar faces.

They were sharing one camera, side-by-side on the couch back in Sweetwater—Emma in a hoodie, Marcy wrapped in a quilt. Behind them, Fiona could see the blurry background of Emma’s kitchen: the ever-growing stack of unread mail, Marcy’s travel mug on the counter.

“Okay,” Emma said gently, breaking the silence. “You called this emergency meeting.”

“I did,” Fiona said.