11. Fiona
Fiona
The city outside the window blurred into streaks of white and amber as the car moved through the dark. Fiona didn’t blink. She didn’t want to. Blinking meant she’d have to acknowledge the tears.
Her hand twisted in her lap, fisting the fabric of her dress.
Every compliment from the evening echoed hollow in her head.
Her stomach churned. She’d smiled through it all like a fool. She’d thought she was being celebrated. Cherished.
She’d thought she was safe.
Dean’s voice beside her sounded too loud, too reasonable. Every word a scrape across a bruise.
“You’re tired. That’s all. It’s been a long night, and everything feels worse when you’re drained.”
She didn’t respond. She couldn’t. If she spoke, it would all spill out—her hurt, her shame, her growing certainty that the man she’d married didn’t see a partner. He saw a punchline.
He’d held her hand while he waited for her to say something dumb. She’d given him her softest parts, and he’d turned them into entertainment.
Dean was still talking, trying to soften his voice, to reframe the narrative. He was always so good at spin. His whole job was turning stories into strategy, real people into personas. She’d admired that once.
Now she wondered what version of her he’d built for the algorithm. What character she’d become in his self-important reality.
The dumb wife. The simple girl from nowhere.
She wanted to scream. To claw the silence into something loud. But she couldn’t—not yet. Not while they were still moving. Not while she was trapped in a luxury vehicle that smelled like Dean’s expensive cologne.
She kept her eyes on the glass. Her reflection looked like a stranger—pale, watery, the curve of her mouth caught between shame and devastation.
She’d survive the ride home. She had to.
The bathroom lights were unforgiving.
Fiona stood in front of the mirror. She looked the same as she always did. Someone na?ve. Someone stupid.
She felt untethered, every movement felt mechanical. Hands behind her, sliding the zipper down with a tug. The fabric slipped from her shoulders and whispered to the tile floor.
She pulled on her softest pajamas—moons and stars scattered over the faded cotton. The pants she’d worn on lazy Sundays. The shirt that still smelled faintly of lavender detergent and sleep.
She couldn’t be naked. Not now. Not here.
Not with him in the next room. Not after everything.
She already felt too exposed.
Like every private, soft, silly moment she’d shared had been filed away.
Her secrets weren’t secrets. They were captions. They were hashtags.
She rubbed her palms down her thighs, trying to calm herself. Her whole body stung with the sharp, hot itch of shame.
She’d smiled at those people. Cared what they thought of her.
She’d looked across the room at her husband and felt lucky .
All while they’d been laughing at her. And he had lead them.
Fiona swallowed against the burn in her throat.
She’d thought he was on her side. Her partner. Her safe place.
But now… she didn’t even know who he was.
Someone who respected you didn’t do this.
Someone who cared about you didn’t let the world mock you behind your back and call it affection.
She turned off the bathroom light and stepped into the dim hallway. Her bare feet moved soundlessly toward the bedroom.
She still hadn’t figured out what came next. But she knew one thing with a clarity that cut through the haze:
She couldn’t be married to someone who didn’t respect her.
And tonight, Dean had made that painfully clear.
Every object felt contaminated. The coffee mug with her lipstick stain—had he photographed that?
The throw pillow she'd fluffed before leaving—was that "content" too? She moved through their space like a crime scene investigator, seeing potential violations everywhere. She saw the childish, silly additions she’d made to his apartment—the novelty magnets on the fridge, the cozy blanket, the calendar with gold star stickers. She wasn’t sleek like him.
She was earnest. Whimsical. Embarrassingly sincere.
Heat spread from her cheeks down her neck in blotchy waves.
Dean looked up as she entered the room.
The bedroom was dim, the only light coming from Dean’s side of the bed—his phone casting a pale blue glow across the sheets and the sharp angle of his jaw. He was half under the covers, one arm propped behind his head.
“Hey,” he said, like everything was fine.
Fiona stood in the doorway for a moment, watching him.
Just another night. Just another bedtime.
Twenty-three thousand people knew about her childhood lie, her fear of butterflies, her belief that cookies could solve problems. They knew the shape of her vulnerability better than her own family did. She'd been involuntarily intimate with strangers for years.
She crossed the room quietly, the carpet soft beneath her feet. Her pajamas felt like armor now—thin and worn, but familiar. Hers.
She pulled back the sheets, slipped in beside him without touching.
She faced the ceiling. Her pulse was loud in her ears.
Dean set his phone down on the nightstand and rolled toward her, propping himself up on one elbow.
“You know I didn’t mean to hurt you, right?” he asked softly, brushing a strand of hair off her face. His touch burned.
“I just wanted people to see how funny you are. How real.” He was trying to spin the story—reshape the narrative until it fit something he could live with. “You’re the best part of my day, Fi. You always have been.”
Fiona finally turned to face him.
Her voice came out quiet, but steady. “Do you even like me, Dean?”
He blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
“All those things you posted,” she said. “Do you think I’m dumb? Do your friends?”
He laughed, too quickly. “Of course not. It’s a joke, Fiona.”
She didn’t smile. “I wasn’t in on the joke.”
Dean exhaled, already frustrated. “You’re making this a bigger deal than it is.”
“I don’t think I am,” she said.
They stared at each other in the dark.
She wanted to disappear into the mattress, to somehow undo every honest thing she'd ever said to him. If she could take back every vulnerable moment, every silly confession, every time she'd let her guard down—would she?
And in that case, what did that mean for her relationship?
In that moment, with perfect, terrible clarity, she knew: she could never trust him again. Could never be vulnerable with him again. Could never look at him without wondering what private moment he'd turn into public entertainment next.
Her marriage was over, and she was lying next to its corpse.
And then Fiona rolled onto her side, her back to him, drawing the blanket up to her chin. She didn’t say goodnight. Didn’t wait for an apology.
Dean didn’t touch her. She heard him lie back with a sigh and reach for his phone again. The glow returned, dancing across the ceiling.
Fiona stared into the darkness, her eyes open. Wide awake.
She felt cold, even under the blanket. She felt exposed in a way that made her skin crawl, like she'd been walking around naked for two years without realizing it.
She pulled the covers over her head like a child hiding from monsters, but the darkness only made it worse.
She could see those comments playing on repeat: “stupid,” "moron.
" Words that would be carved into her brain forever, typed by strangers who knew her most private thoughts better than she knew theirs.
She'd been living her life in a fishbowl without realizing the glass was one-way.
She had to concentrate on breathing—in, out, in, out—to keep from hyperventilating.