Page 49 of The Humiliated Wife

A flash of yellow sat on the table.

A sticky note in Fiona's careful handwriting: "Don't forget the milk. Love you. -F"

She must have written dozens of these over the years. Little paper hugs, tucked into his things like secrets.

He stared at the note until the words blurred.

She lovedhim.

Not the version of himself he performed for clients and colleagues. Not the sharp, cynical man who belonged at rooftop bars making cutting jokes. She'd loved the version of him that existed in their quiet apartment on Sunday mornings—messy-haired and unguarded.

And what had he done with that love?

Turned it into a weakness. Made her trust into entertainment for people who would never know the real Fiona.

His phone buzzed. Another notification.

Dean picked it up and opened the app. @shitfionasays stared back at him—up to 22.4k followers now. The latest post had 847 likes. Comments rolling in.

"This account makes my day"

"Your wife is unintentionally hilarious"

His wife.

His wife, who packed him lunches with encouraging notes. Who made his coffee too hot because she knew he liked it that way. Who looked at him like he hung the moon even when he came home tired and sharp-edged from his world.

She had trusted him with her softest parts.

He'd thought his cynicism made him sophisticated. Made him smarter than her earnest belief that the world could be kind, that people were fundamentally good, that small gestures mattered.

He'd cultivated that detachment like armor, rolled his eyes at her optimism, felt superior to her hope. But it hadn't been wisdom at all—it had been cowardice.

Fear that caring too much would make him vulnerable, that sincerity would make him look foolish.

So he'd chosen to mock what he was too scared to feel, turned cruelty into currency, and convinced himself that being jaded made him interesting instead of just empty.

Dean dropped the phone and pressed the sticky note against his chest, like it could somehow reach his heart.

The silence swelled around him—deeper now. He waited for the relief to come, for the noise in his head to quiet. But it didn’t.

Fiona wasn’t going to come walking through that door with her smile too big for her face, wearing mismatched socks and humming out of tune. She wasn’t going to slip a new note into his bag or curl up beside him like he was a safe place.

He had taken the best thing in his life and turned it into a spectacle.

And now she was gone.

Not angry.

Not even heartbroken.

Just done.

And that was worse than any fight.

Because if she had screamed, he might’ve believed they still had a chance.

But she'd walked away calm. Certain. Empty of hope.