Page 143 of The Humiliated Wife

He lifted it gently, brushing his thumb across her fingers, one by one. The soft pad of her ring finger, smooth and empty. Not for long.

“I’m going to put a ring on this,” he whispered, more vow than promise.

Fiona blinked slowly, her smile lazy and warm. “You already did.”

Dean kissed her knuckles. “A new ring for a new husband. Abetterhusband.”

She tilted her head toward him. “You want to have another wedding?”

He imagined watching Fiona walk toward him in something simple and beautiful, her face radiant with joy. He imagined promising himself to her. He imagined Fiona putting a ring on his finger, claiming him, forgiving him, loving him, choosing him.

He grinned, a little sheepish, at how strongly he felt. “Yes. Backyard. String lights. Your kids making the centerpiece art.”

“They’re really into glitter right now,” she warned him, arching an eyebrow.

He kissed her hand again. “You can cover me in glitter, Fiona. Just marry me again.”

She didn’t answer. She just looked at him for a long, quiet moment—like she was memorizing the face of the man she’d chosen twice.

Her fingers curled into his.

And Dean felt it in his bones: this time, he was going to get it right.

Epilogue

It wasn’t perfect.

The aisle was a little crooked. The folding chairs didn’t match. One of Fiona’s students had spilled juice on the guestbook table, and Russell kept sneaking extra deviled eggs before the ceremony even started.

But none of that mattered.

The backyard behind Fiona’s parents’ house was strung with white lights and tissue paper lanterns, homemade by her fifth graders. A line of mason jars filled with wildflowers marked the aisle. The arch was made from two borrowed trellises and an old quilt her grandmother had sewn, now hanging like a banner behind them.

Dean stood at the front, heart thudding in his chest, the same way it had the first time.

The guests quieted.

And then there she was.

Fiona stepped out from the back porch in a soft, ivory dress that swayed around her ankles. Her curls were pinned with tiny daisies. No veil. No frills. Just her. Real and radiant and his.

Dean swore the breath left his body.

June let out a little gasp. Emma sniffed. Marcy grinned so hard she probably gave herself a headache.

Dean didn’t even pretend to stay composed. His whole face crumpled. Fiona caught his eye and smiled, and that was it—he was gone.

He was floating and anchored all at once. The kind of raw joy that made his ribs feel like they couldn’t hold the force of it.

He didn’t deserve it. But she chose him anyway.

Dean wasn’t just in love with her. He was rooted in her. He was rebuilt because of her.

Fiona’s dad walked her down the makeshift aisle, slow and steady. When she reached Dean, she slipped her hand into his like it had always belonged there.

The officiant—Marcy, with a legal ordination certificate printed out just last week—cleared her throat.

“Alright, lovebirds. Let’s keep it together.”