2. Dean
Dean
She hadn’t even taken off her shoes. Just dropped her bag, reached up, and kissed him like she’d been thinking about it the whole way home. Dean, still barefoot and holding a coffee mug, was caught off guard—but only for half a second.
Then he kissed her back.
Her fingers slipped into his hair, tugging lightly, and he smiled against her mouth.
“Well, hi,” he murmured.
“Hi,” she said, breathless. “I missed you.”
He kissed her again, deeper this time, coffee cup abandoned. She was cold from outside, cheeks flushed, still wearing that oversized cardigan she always claimed was hideous but never stopped wearing.
They didn’t make it far—just down the hallway, to the bedroom, where the light came in soft and slanted across the sheets.
Being alone with Fiona was the only time Dean didn’t feel like he was chasing something. No deadlines, no brand directors asking for the impossible in a twelve-hour window. She didn’t want anything from him that he didn’t already want to give to her.
They moved together with heart-stopping familiarity. Clothes peeled away one layer at a time. Her legs wrapped around him, anchoring him. Her hands skimmed his shoulders, his back, his jaw.
When he slid inside her, the rest of the world blurred.
Only this. Only her. The only person he had to please, and the only person he wanted to please.
Fiona. The woman he loved. The woman who had promised him forever. His wife .
He touched her like it was a privilege, like every gasp from her mouth was something sacred. His hand moved with purpose, coaxing her higher even as he drove into her. She clutched his shoulder, gasped his name, and when she came—shaking, clenching around him—it undid him completely.
They stayed like that, tangled and sweat-damp, her skin cooling slowly against his.
“I love you,” she breathed.
He pressed his forehead to hers. She loved him . It was everything to him.
Dean stirred milk into his break room coffee, a private smile tugging at his mouth.
His fingers still remembered her. The curve of her waist. The way her breath hitched when he brushed just beneath her ribs. He could still feel her, like the memory had fused with his skin.
He caught his reflection in the microwave door—soft and open. He straightened. That wasn’t him. Not really. The real Dean was sharp. Strategic. Cool. He adjusted his collar, let the rest fall away. Game face on.
"Hey, man," came Cam’s voice, easy and familiar. "Creative said you were gonna pitch?”
Dean didn’t turn. “That’s the rumor.”
Cam slapped him on the back. “Clients don’t know what they want—they just want to feel like they’re buying cool. That’s our job.”
Dean nodded—this was how the game worked, and he played it better than most.
The break room filled slowly—familiar faces from digital, brand, accounts. Everyone looked a little too good for 9:30 AM. The room smelled like cologne and capitalism.
"You heard about Russell, right?" someone muttered near the fridge.
Dean tilted his head. "What about Russell?”
"Out. Took early retirement. Just working his notice period.” A shrug. "Didn’t keep pace with the mood."
Translation: he was pushed out. He didn’t stay trendy enough. Didn’t throw enough elbows.
Dean understood. Russell couldn’t keep up. He wasn’t part of the inner circle—wasn’t at the rooftop parties, didn’t chime in on Slack with the latest meme.
Dean hadn’t spoken to him more than a handful of times. A polite nod at the coffee machine. Not much else. But he’d been solid. Unflashy. The kind of guy who brought muffins to morning meetings and remembered everyone’s kid’s name.
Cam clapped him on the back. “He should have followed your example. Everyone loves the Fiona account."
Dean smirked. "She makes it easy."
“It works, ” Ava said from the corner, curling one hand around her matcha.
Cam's girlfriend was a corporate lawyer. Ava's husband ran a tech startup. Even the interns dated influencers with actual followings.
And Dean? Dean was married to someone who considered it a victory when she got her bulletin board borders to line up straight. Fiona was sweet, but sweet didn’t win clients or keep you on the shortlist.
Roxanne looked up from her phone, thumbs still scrolling. “I send it to interns. ‘Know your audience.’ It’s textbook.”
“I don’t know how you don’t just die laughing at home,” Cam said, sitting on the counter.
Dean snorted. “You get used to it.”
They laughed.
He was never going to brag about being married to someone whose world was so much smaller than his. A wife who color- coded her lesson plans and decorated her classroom with construction paper affirmations wasn’t going to score any points in his world.
That wasn’t prestige. That wasn’t important.
That was... small. Silly. Sweet.
These people dealt in millions of dollars, global campaigns, cultural moments. Fiona dealt in juice boxes and permission slips.
He'd chosen to marry someone who wasn't used to being on top. Most men would have been dragged down by her, but Dean was smart enough to turn it into an advantage.