Page 8 of The Humiliated Wife

“They’re not laughing at you, Fi. Come on.” He brushed a thumb along her shoulder. “You’re charming. You say whatever you’re thinking, and they don’t know what to do with that. That’s why they’re jealous of you.”

She turned her face slightly into his chest, let the conversation drop.

Dean’s hand kept tracing along her skin, and she stayed curled against him. She could stay like this for hours, breathing him in. Her favorite, safest place in the world.

CHAPTER 4

Dean

Someone from accountswas droning on. Dean nodded at the right intervals, but his focus was somewhere else entirely.

His phone sat angled on his thigh, screen dimmed low, just enough to make it look like he was glancing at his notes.

He wasn’t.

He was reading the comments on the latest post.

“She sounds like a dumb bitch”

“This can’t be real. Nobody’s actually this clueless.”

“Is she hot at least or is he just dating her for content?”

“Dude this account is GOLD”

“Leave her alone she’s clearly sweet omg”

“No she’s not sweet she’s a moron”

The argument had already started. Dean could see it building—one mean comment triggering five replies, which spiraled intoten more. Defenders and attackers going at it like clockwork. The likes were climbing fast. Shares even faster.

He used to delete stuff like that. The really bad ones. Especially early on, when the account was still mostly a private joke between him and a few friends.

But the algorithm rewarded heat. The more controversial the post, the better it performed. Fiona’s wide-eyed observations were like blood in the water.

And when the sharks came, the visibility soared.

Occasionally he’d pin a comment from someone calling her "adorable" or "precious" to balance the tone.

Dean scrolled back up to the photo that accompanied his latest post about her. Fiona’s socked feet, tucked into the corner of their bed.

Strawberries on flannel. A little wrinkle in the comforter where she always curled her toes. The faintest blur in the corner where she’d moved mid-shot, without knowing he’d even taken the picture.

He looked away from the phone, back at the boardroom—white walls, sleek glass, men with wolfish smiles and buzzwords for blood.

Dean tapped the screen once. Let it go dark.

He’d always thoughtCam’s place was always a little too much, although he’d never admit it. His own apartment wasn’t cool,not anymore. Not since he’d married Fiona, and she’d moved in and brought her furnishings with her.

Cam’s place hadn’t been softened by a wife’s unsophisticated taste. Exposed brick, vintage leather couch, modular lighting that dimmed on voice command.

The drinks were good, and the company was—well, familiar. If you worked in PR or branding or whatever version of advertising people called it now, this was your circle.

Fiona was beside him on the couch, half a drink in hand, legs tucked neatly beneath her. She’d worn jeans and a soft-looking sweater and her sweetest earrings, the little gold ones shaped like leaves. He loved those earrings.

He just didn’t know if he loved them unironically or not.

She looked a little out of place here, all soft edges and sincerity in a room full of sharp tongues.