Page 4 of The Humiliated Wife

Fiona tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s like he catches the parts of me I don’t even realize I’m giving away.” She glanced down, almost embarrassed. “I mentioned I missed the shortbread from that bakery near school. Just once. Casually. He showed up after work with a box of them and pretended it was no big deal.”

Emma groaned. “Disgusting.”

“You married well,” Marcy said quietly, smiling.

“I did,” Fiona said, with something like wonder in her voice. “I really did.”

She thought about when they were first married and he'd surprised her with tickets to see a boyband. She'd been too embarrassed to tell him how much she’d wanted to go—a grown woman getting excited about a band she'd loved in high school. But Dean had guessed anyway. He’d even worn the merch t-shirt she'd bought him. He'd never once made her feel silly for loving something so uncool.

She really had married well.

She might not fit seamlessly into Dean's world of gallery openings and industry friends, but she was proud to show up on his arm anyway.

CHAPTER 2

Dean

She hadn’t even takenoff her shoes. Just dropped her bag, reached up, and kissed him like she’d been thinking about it the whole way home. Dean, still barefoot and holding a coffee mug, was caught off guard—but only for half a second.

Then he kissed her back.

Her fingers slipped into his hair, tugging lightly, and he smiled against her mouth.

“Well, hi,” he murmured.

“Hi,” she said, breathless. “I missed you.”

He kissed her again, deeper this time, coffee cup abandoned. She was cold from outside, cheeks flushed, still wearing that oversized cardigan she always claimed was hideous but never stopped wearing.

They didn’t make it far—just down the hallway, to the bedroom, where the light came in soft and slanted across the sheets.

Being alone with Fiona was the only time Dean didn’t feel like he was chasing something. No deadlines, no brand directors askingfor the impossible in a twelve-hour window. She didn’t want anything from him that he didn’t already want to give to her.

They moved together with heart-stopping familiarity. Clothes peeled away one layer at a time. Her legs wrapped around him, anchoring him. Her hands skimmed his shoulders, his back, his jaw.

When he slid inside her, the rest of the world blurred.

Only this. Only her. The only person he had to please, and the only person hewantedto please.

Fiona. The woman he loved. The woman who had promised him forever. Hiswife.

He touched her like it was a privilege, like every gasp from her mouth was something sacred. His hand moved with purpose, coaxing her higher even as he drove into her. She clutched his shoulder, gasped his name, and when she came—shaking, clenching around him—it undid him completely.

They stayed like that, tangled and sweat-damp, her skin cooling slowly against his.

“I love you,” she breathed.

He pressed his forehead to hers.She loved him. It was everything to him.

Dean stirredmilk into his break room coffee, a private smile tugging at his mouth.

His fingers still remembered her. The curve of her waist. The way her breath hitched when he brushed just beneath her ribs. He could still feel her, like the memory had fused with his skin.

He caught his reflection in the microwave door—soft and open. He straightened. That wasn’t him. Not really. The real Dean was sharp. Strategic. Cool. He adjusted his collar, let the rest fall away. Game face on.

"Hey, man," came Cam’s voice, easy and familiar. "Creative said you were gonna pitch?”

Dean didn’t turn. “That’s the rumor.”