Page 71 of The Humiliated Wife

Fiona's hands tightened on the shopping cart handle.

"He had it blown up for everyone to see—a dozen people in the conference room, all admiring how 'genius' it was. Your little strawberry socks, larger than life." Roxanne's laugh was like broken crystal. "The engagement metrics, the comments section. Really impressive numbers, actually."

The thought of her private moments displayed on a conference room screen, analyzed like a case study while a room full of people who'd been mocking her for years nodded along, made Fiona feel sick.

"Must have been quite the presentation," she managed.

"Oh, it was fascinating." Roxanne examined her manicured nails. "Very educational for the junior staff."

Fiona felt something cold settle in her chest, but she kept her voice steady. "I'm sure it was."

"But then," Roxanne continued, eyes lighting up with malicious glee, "Dean completely lost it. Started ranting about how we were all terrible people for enjoying it. Called us sociopaths, if you can believe it. Very childish. Very...you, actually."

The casual insult was typical of Roxanne. Even now, even after everything, they couldn't resist making her the punchline.

Despite herself, Fiona felt a complicated twist in her stomach. Part of her was glad Dean had finally stood up to these people. Part of her wondered if he was okay.

"Must have been awkward," she managed.

"Oh, incredibly. But also hilarious, in a train-wreck sort of way." Roxanne's eyes sparkled with malicious glee.

She said it like it was the funniest thing in the world.

Fiona felt something cold and hard settle in her chest. Not anger—something cleaner than that. Something like clarity.

Fiona looked at this woman—this person who had sat at dinner tables with her, who had smiled and made small talk while secretly cataloguing her every awkward moment for later entertainment—and felt a wave of something that wasn't quite pity but wasn't far from it.

"You think everything is performance," Fiona said.

"Isn't it?" Roxanne tilted her head. "I mean, this whole conversation? You standing there with your little grocery cart, buying store-brand coffee like some tragic indie film heroine? Come on. You know we're going to talk about this the minute you leave."

"I'm sure you will," Fiona said. "You always do."

Strange how little power Roxanne had over her now she no longer wanted her approval.

Roxanne looked taken aback.

"Well," Roxanne said, adjusting, "I suppose we all play our parts. Though I have to say, Dean's been playing his quite badly lately.The whole 'tormented guilt' thing doesn't suit him. He's much better at confident and charming."

"Maybe," Fiona said, pushing her cart forward, "he's finally being honest instead of charming."

She didn’t wait for a reply. She didn’t care if one came. Fiona turned toward the checkout, back straight, cart rattling ahead, and left Roxanne—and her sharp little world of condescension—exactly where they belonged.

Behind her.

Fiona placedthe coffee on the conveyor belt, followed by a few other careful, budget-conscious choices. No extras. No impulse buys. Just the basics.

Fiona pulled out her card and inserted it into the reader, mentally calculating how much would be left in her account. Not much. Maybe fifty dollars. Enough to scrape by if nothing went wrong.

The machine beeped. Approved.

She blinked.

It should’ve asked her to choose debit or credit. She glanced at the screen.

It showed her the current balance. Her breath caught.

That couldn’t be right. She hadn’t gotten paid. And even if she had, that was far too much?—