Page 7 of The Humiliated Wife

Fiona blinked. She wasn’t from the middle of nowhere. “I’m from Sweetwater,” she said. “It’s only about an hour away from here. We have grocery stores.”

Cam gave a thin smile. “Maybe you should take your class on a school trip. What do you teach again?”

“Fifth grade,” she said, and despite the undercurrents of the conversation, she felt a smile spread across her face as she pictured her students.

Teaching to her meant seeing tiny shoulders straighten when they realized they weren’t dumb, just new at something. Sometimes Fiona wondered if she taught reading and math, or just self-belief in disguise.

She just wished she felt as comfortable here as she did in front of her class.

“God,” Roxanne drawled. “That’s so wholesome I could die.”

More laughter.

Fiona smiled along with it, because it was easier than asking whether they meant to be cruel. She took a sip of wine and let the glass hide her mouth.

She tried again a few minutes later—adding her voice to the conversation.

No one even bothered to respond. Someone started talking over her before she’d even finished.

She smoothed her napkin again, even though it didn’t need smoothing. Shifted in her seat. Looked down the table like maybe someone else would make space for her in the conversation.

Dean was next to at least. He’d been pulled into a different conversation, something Jared had said about brand voice and moral relatability.

His hand rested on her leg under the table. The weight of it, the warmth—it steadied something in her chest.

He leaned in, just enough for her to hear. “They’re exhausting. You’re doing great.”

His hand stayed where it was. Warm. Steady. Anchoring.

She could handle the rest—the low-key digs, the smart jokes with sharp edges, the invisible velvet rope between her and them. She could smile and sip wine and pretend the ache behind her ribs was nothing.

As long as Dean would always be in her corner.

She wantedto stay exactly where she was forever. Fiona lay on her side, head tucked beneath Dean’s chin, her hand resting lightly over his heart.

She could hear it—the steady thump of it beneath her palm. She liked that. That he was warm and alive and here.

His arm was around her, fingers trailing slowly up and down her spine like a rhythm he didn’t even realize he’d fallen into. She felt herself melting into him, bones turning liquid.

“I love you,” she said quietly.

Dean made a soft sound. “Good.” She loved the way his voice rumbled through his chest when he spoke quietly.

Fiona looked up, chin resting on his chest. She still hesitated, even now, afraid of sounding foolish. But with Dean, she could be a little foolish. He never made her feel small for it.

She could say anything to Dean. “Do you ever feel like... I don’t quite fit? In your world?”

He tilted his head, squinting slightly. “What do you mean?”

“Your work friends. Those gallery people. Everyone always has something smart to say, or ironic. I spend my working hours with children.”

She wished she could explain it—the way she always felt like the volume was turned down on her when they were with his friends. Like she had to shrink herself to match the room.

Dean just held her. “You don’t have to fit in with anyone. You’re—” He kissed her forehead. “Different. You’re real.”

Fiona hesitated, then said it. Soft, but honest. “I feel like I’m the butt of a joke sometimes. When I’m with your friends, or at those things we go to. Like they’re all in on something and I’m just... background humor.”

The moment the words left her mouth, she regretted them. It sounded dramatic. Needy.