Page 9 of The Humiliated Wife

Maybe it would’ve been easier—for both of them—if she’d stayed home tonight.

Across from them, Roxanne was telling a story about a creative director who got caught plagiarizing a slogan from an old ad and tried to pass it off as postmodern.

“And the best part,” Roxanne said, grinning, “was that the idiot doubled down. Said, ‘Aren’t we all just rebranding the past?’ Like he was quoting Derrida instead of dodging HR.”

Laughter all around.

“God,” Cam said, “people are so allergic to original thought.”

“Which is lucky for you,” Ava added, “because your entire job is recycling adjectives.”

Cam winced. “Ouch.”

Dean chuckled, sipping his drink. It was good to unwind like this—familiar rhythms, jabs and inside jokes flying back and forth like a tennis match no one really wanted to win. Just sharp enough to draw blood, never enough to scar.

“I thought your latest campaign was great, Cam,” Fiona said supportively. “Dean showed it to me.”

That was sweet of her. Dean winced. This crowd didn’t know what to do with “sweet”.

Cam blinked. Ava raised an eyebrow.

Roxanne’s grin sharpened. “God, we forget what the uninformed audience thinks sometimes. You’re like a perfect little focus group.”

Dean rested a hand on Fiona’s knee.

“The teasing is all just for fun,” he said, leaning toward her. “They don’t mean it.”

Fiona glanced at him, something unreadable flickering across her face. “I guess I’m still not used to… humor that leaves bruises.”

Dean gave her a small smile and rubbed his thumb along her leg like that could smooth it over.

“It’s just how they are,” he murmured. “They’re not being mean. This is just... how we talk.”

Fiona nodded. Said nothing.

The conversation flowed on around them. She stayed quiet.

Dean didn’t worry about it.

She always got quiet around his friends. But she was fine. She was just sensitive. Sweet.

CHAPTER 5

Fiona

Fiona smoothedthe edge of the poster paper as the class settled into their seats. A small stack of paint chips sat in the tray beside her—dozens of nearly identical blues, each with its own name:Arctic Sky, French Riviera, Delft, Ocean Fog.

“Okay, scientists,” she said, tapping the board with her marker, “today we are investigating color. Specifically… blue.”

Groans from the back. “Like… the color?”

“No, like the emotion,” she deadpanned. “We’re all going to cry for forty-five minutes while I play sad violin music.”

A ripple of giggles passed through the room.

Then Fiona held up two paint chips—Sky BlueandCornflower.“These look the same, right?”

Heads nodded.