Page 6 of The Humiliated Wife

In the bathroom mirror, she opened her makeup bag and stared at the lipstick she'd been saving—a deep berry shade that the sales girl had called "bold" and "statement-making."

Fiona twisted the tube open, then closed it again. Too much. It was too much for a work dinner with Dean's colleagues. She reached for her usual nude shade instead.

Then stopped.

When was the last time she'd worn something that made her feel beautiful instead of appropriate? When was the last time she'd chosen bold over safe?

She applied the berry lipstick with careful precision, then stepped back to look at herself. The woman in the mirror looked... different. Confident. Like someone who belonged at gallery openings and wine tastings, not just parent-teacher conferences.

"Fi, you ready?" Dean called from the bedroom.

She smoothed the dress one more time, squared her shoulders, and walked out.

Dean was adjusting his cufflinks when he looked up. His hands stilled. His eyes went wide, then traveled slowly from her face to her feet and back up again.

"Jesus," he breathed.

Heat flooded her cheeks. "Too much?"

"Not even close." He gave a low whistle that made her laugh and spin once, the dress flaring around her legs.

His gaze dragged over her, lingering at her legs, her waist, her mouth. "You look incredible. Like, stop-traffic incredible."

The confidence she'd seen in the mirror settled into her bones for real now. This was why she'd bought the dress. This was why she'd chosen the bold lipstick. For this moment. For the wayDean was looking at her like she was the most beautiful woman in the world.

"You think it's appropriate?" she asked, suddenly uncertain again.

Dean crossed the room and cupped her face gently, careful not to smudge her makeup. "You're perfect," he said, and kissed her forehead. "They're going to be so jealous that you're mine."

Walkinginto the restaurant brought all her nerves back. The space was dim and expensive in that understated way—brick walls, candlelight, minimalist. The group was already at least one bottle of wine in when she and Dean arrived.

He slipped in like he belonged. Of course he did.

He greeted people by name, shook hands, laughed easily. Fiona followed, smiling, nodding, trying not to stand awkwardly in the space between two chairs while Dean kissed Ava on both cheeks and made a joke about her new client that everyone seemed to get but her.

She’d known them for years. They’d all been at the wedding. They’d fit the ceremony better than she had—sleek, on-trend, exclusive. It hadn’t really been her thing, but she hadn’t cared about the ceremony—only the groom. She wasn’t fussy about details. She just wanted to marry him.

Most of his friends worked at the agency—same titles, same lingo, same parties. A closed loop of sleek people who moved from meetings to martinis without missing a beat.

Roxanne, with her architectural blazer and that clipped, perfect laugh. Cam, who always looked at Fiona like she was cute for trying. The whole crowd blurred together—shiny shoes, tailored sleeves, conversation full of hidden traps, like a polished maze designed to catch anyone who didn’t know the right references.

Fiona sat beside Dean and folded her napkin into her lap. Someone had taken the liberty of ordering for the table—small plates, naturally. Everything would arrive beautifully arranged and tragically under-portioned.

Dean’s friends were talking about oat milk. Or rather, an ad campaign for oat milk.

“It’s performative wellness,” Ava was saying, swirling her wine. “Completely full of itself. I respect it.”

Laughter. A round of smug little nods.

Dean laughed too.

Fiona tried to join the conversation. “I think it’s great that people have options now.”

There was a pause—half a beat too long. Then a few chuckles. Someone smiled, but not at her—more like through her.

She felt her ears go warm.

Roxanne tilted her head. “That’s cute. I guess they don’t stock oat milk where you come from.”