Page 74 of The Humiliated Wife

That was something he could still do. Something he was going to do, whether she wanted it or not.

Even if it was the last husbandly act he'd ever perform for her.

CHAPTER 31

Fiona

Seventeen new followers overnight.Forty-three likes on yesterday's post. And the comments—God, the comments were like little love letters from strangers.

Your post about trying again saved my day yesterday

your words are exactly what I needed to hear

Thank you for reminding me that kindness isn't weakness

Fiona sat up against the headboard, pulling the quilt around her shoulders, and scrolled through her notifications with something that felt dangerously close to joy.

@missfionasays had started small—just her voice in the void, talking to herself about healing and hope. But somewhere along the way, it had become something else.

Fiona's throat tightened in the best way. These weren't people laughing at her. These were people who saw themselves in her words, who felt less alone because she'd been brave enough to be honest about the messy parts.

Her follower count sat at three figures now. Not huge by internet standards, but each number represented a real person who'd chosen to listen to what she had to say. Who found value in her thoughts, her perspective, her voice.

The voice Dean had turned into a punchline.

The voice that was apparently worth listening to after all.

She stared at her phone and caught a glimpse of her left hand.

Her ring finger was bare. It still startled her sometimes, like she'd forgotten something essential. Her thumb moved instinctively, seeking the band that wasn’t there. That would never be there again.

Fiona set her phone aside and stretched, feeling something unfamiliar settle in her chest. It took her a moment to identify it.

Pride.

Not the defensive kind that came from proving people wrong. Not the fragile kind that depended on other people's approval.

Just... quiet satisfaction in something she'd built. Something that mattered. Something that was entirely hers.

She glanced at the clock. Time to get ready. The commute from Sweetwater was long, and her students didn’t care that she was rebuilding her life one post, one deep breath, one mile at a time.

She thought about the woman who'd stood in that bathroom at the awards dinner, staring at her reflection and feeling like a fool. That woman had felt so small, so stupid, so utterly without value.

This woman—the one sitting in Emma's guest room in her pajamas—this woman was helping people feel less alone in the world.

This woman had something to say that was worth hearing.

Fiona was packingup her materials when Mr. Granger lingered by her desk, holding a manila envelope.

"Fiona," he said, his voice dropping to what she assumed was meant to be a charming register. "Almost forgot—Marcus left this permission slip at home. Thought I'd save you the hassle of calling."

She reached for the envelope, but he didn't let go immediately.

"Thanks," she said, finally tugging it out of his grip. She stepped back and tucked it under her stack of papers.

He leaned against her desk, arms crossed. "Marcus talks about you all the time at home—says you're the best teacher he's ever had."

"That's wonderful to hear," Fiona said carefully, something in his tone making her pause. "He's a bright kid. Very thoughtful."