4. Dean
Dean
Someone from accounts was 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 into ten 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 thought Cam’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.
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.