Page 22 of The Humiliated Wife

She wanted to disappear into the mattress, to somehow undo every honest thing she'd ever said to him. If she could take back every vulnerable moment, every silly confession, every time she'd let her guard down—would she?

And in that case, what did that mean for her relationship?

In that moment, with perfect, terrible clarity, she knew: she could never trust him again. Could never be vulnerable with him again. Could never look at him without wondering what private moment he'd turn into public entertainment next.

Her marriage was over, and she was lying next to its corpse.

And then Fiona rolled onto her side, her back to him, drawing the blanket up to her chin. She didn’t say goodnight. Didn’t wait for an apology.

Dean didn’t touch her. She heard him lie back with a sigh and reach for his phone again. The glow returned, dancing across the ceiling.

Fiona stared into the darkness, her eyes open. Wide awake.

She felt cold, even under the blanket. She felt exposed in a way that made her skin crawl, like she'd been walking around naked for two years without realizing it.

She pulled the covers over her head like a child hiding from monsters, but the darkness only made it worse. She could see those comments playing on repeat: “stupid,” "moron." Wordsthat would be carved into her brain forever, typed by strangers who knew her most private thoughts better than she knew theirs. She'd been living her life in a fishbowl without realizing the glass was one-way.

She had to concentrate on breathing—in, out, in, out—to keep from hyperventilating.

CHAPTER 12

Fiona

The morning lightcrept into the bedroom, casting soft, gray streaks across the sheets. It was quiet. Too quiet. Like the apartment itself was waiting to see what she would do.

She hadn’t slept, not really—just drifted on the surface of exhaustion, her mind replaying everything over and over. The captions. The comments. The idea of strangers laughing at her.

And worst of all—Dean telling her to grow up.

She turned her head slowly to look at him.

Dean slept easily beside her, one hand flung carelessly over his chest, his handsome face calm and familiar. The man who made her feel safe. That’s what gutted her.

His phone sat charging on his nightstand, the same phone he'd used to photograph her, to type captions about her "adorable naivety" while she slept inches away. How many times had he pretended to scroll through work emails while actually crafting posts about her latest embarrassing confession?

She studied his face—the face she'd kissed thousands of times, the mouth that had whispered "I love you". Even asleep, he looked self-satisfied. Like a cat who'd cornered a mouse and was saving it for later.

She’d spent their whole relationship feeling protected by him. He'd always known what to say when she doubted herself. Had a way of making her feel like the world could be sharp, but he was soft in all the right places.

And now?

Now she finally knew which version of him was real.

Quietly, she slid out of bed and tiptoed into the bathroom. She dressed quickly—jeans, sweatshirt, sneakers—clothes that felt like armor. Her fingers grasped at her toothbrush: yes, take that too.

She stuffed a few essentials into a bag.

Back in the bedroom, she grabbed her phone from the nightstand just as Dean stirred.

"Fi?" Dean's voice was thick with sleep. "What time is it? Come back to bed."

"I'm going to Emma's," she said softly.

Dean blinked slowly, processing. "Emma's? Why?" He sat up, running a frustrated hand through his messy hair. "Babe, if this is about last night, you're being a little dramatic. It's not that big a deal."

The casual dismissal in his voice—like her pain was an inconvenience, like her humiliation was something to be managed—made her chest tighten.

"I need space."