Page 51 of The Humiliated Wife

It was familiar. The air, the drinks, the banter. And it all felt wrong.

Cam looked over. “So? You gonna tell us where you’ve been hiding, or do we have to assume cult activity?”

Ava smirked over her glass. “He’s obviously been trying to win back Miss Mindfulness.”

Dean didn’t laugh.

“She’s moved out,” he said. “For good.”

Roxanne blinked. “Seriously?”

Cam winced. “Over the social media thing?”

“Should’ve gone private, man.” Jared said with a grin.

Dean didn’t answer. Just let the silence settle.

“Shewasa little touchy,” Ava offered, swirling her wine.

“She wasn’ttouchy,” he snapped. “She was humiliated. By me. And byall of youlaughing like it was some fucking joke.”

Their heads turned. Not one of them looked particularly sorry—just startled. As if they were finally realizing he wasn’t going to play his part tonight.

Cam held up his hands. “Look, man, we weren’t trying to be dicks. It was all in good fun. You were the one posting the stories. We just followed your lead.”

Dean stared down at his glass. The ice had melted. The whiskey tasted like nothing.

How had he ever thought these people’s approval was more meaningful than Fiona’s love?

Fiona, with her bright eyes and her stupid dragon stickers. Fiona, who packed extra snacks in her desk drawer in case herstudents forgot lunch. Fiona, who paid for school supplies out of her own pocket, who cried at nature documentaries and laughed too hard at her own jokes and left the world a little softer wherever she went.

She had been real.

And these people? These sharks in soft sweaters and sharp opinions? They didn’t know the first thing about kindness. About honesty. Aboutlove.

He looked around the table.

These were his people. They were just like him.

Dean nodded slowly. “Yeah. I know.”

He looked up. Not accusing. Just wrecked.

“You didn’t ruin my marriage. I did.”

Silence. Heavy. Guilty.

He sat back for a moment. Let the silence stretch.

Then: “I’m done.”

Ava raised an eyebrow. “With what?”

Dean stood. “With this.”

He gestured to the table. The bar. The whole carefully designed tableau of success and irony and detachment.

“I don’t want this anymore. I don’t want to sit here and pretend it’s okay to treat people like jokes. I don’t want to be the guy who needs to mock something beautiful just because he is scared.”