31. Fiona
Fiona
Seventeen new followers overnight. Forty-three likes on yesterday's post. And the comments—God, the comments were like little love letters from strangers.
Your post about trying again saved my day yesterday
your words are exactly what I needed to hear
Thank you for reminding me that kindness isn't weakness
Fiona sat up against the headboard, pulling the quilt around her shoulders, and scrolled through her notifications with something that felt dangerously close to joy.
@missfionasays had started small—just her voice in the void, talking to herself about healing and hope. But somewhere along the way, it had become something else.
Fiona's throat tightened in the best way. These weren't people laughing at her. These were people who saw themselves in her words, who felt less alone because she'd been brave enough to be honest about the messy parts.
Her follower count sat at three figures now. Not huge by internet standards, but each number represented a real person who'd chosen to listen to what she had to say. Who found value in her thoughts, her perspective, her voice.
The voice Dean had turned into a punchline.
The voice that was apparently worth listening to after all.
She stared at her phone and caught a glimpse of her left hand.
Her ring finger was bare. It still startled her sometimes, like she'd forgotten something essential. Her thumb moved instinctively, seeking the band that wasn’t there. That would never be there again.
Fiona set her phone aside and stretched, feeling something unfamiliar settle in her chest. It took her a moment to identify it.
Pride.
Not the defensive kind that came from proving people wrong. Not the fragile kind that depended on other people's approval.
Just... quiet satisfaction in something she'd built. Something that mattered. Something that was entirely hers.
She glanced at the clock. Time to get ready. The commute from Sweetwater was long, and her students didn’t care that she was rebuilding her life one post, one deep breath, one mile at a time.
She thought about the woman who'd stood in that bathroom at the awards dinner, staring at her reflection and feeling like a fool. That woman had felt so small, so stupid, so utterly without value.
This woman—the one sitting in Emma's guest room in her pajamas—this woman was helping people feel less alone in the world.
This woman had something to say that was worth hearing.
Fiona was packing up her materials when Mr. Granger lingered by her desk, holding a manila envelope.
"Fiona," he said, his voice dropping to what she assumed was meant to be a charming register. "Almost forgot—Marcus left this permission slip at home. Thought I'd save you the hassle of calling."
She reached for the envelope, but he didn't let go immediately.
"Thanks," she said, finally tugging it out of his grip. She stepped back and tucked it under her stack of papers.
He leaned against her desk, arms crossed. "Marcus talks about you all the time at home—says you're the best teacher he's ever had."
"That's wonderful to hear," Fiona said carefully, something in his tone making her pause. "He's a bright kid. Very thoughtful."
His smile turned too knowing, too familiar. "A busy teacher like you, probably doesn't get out much. All work and no play, right?"
Fiona's stomach dropped as she realized where this was heading. "Mr. Granger?—"
"Call me Troy." He moved closer, his voice lowering. "Look, I know teachers don't make much. But I do pretty well for myself. Maybe we could grab a drink sometime? Adult conversation, nice dinner. I could show you a good time."
Fiona opened her mouth to shut it down—firmly, professionally—but then he reached out and brushed her left hand, right over the bare spot where her wedding ring used to be.
Just a light touch. Two fingers, deliberate and lingering, as if to say I noticed.
As if to say You're available to me now.
Her breath caught. Not from surprise—from disgust.
"I think there's been a misunderstanding," Fiona said sharply, yanking her hand back and moving to put the desk between them. "I'm Marcus's teacher. This conversation is completely inappropriate."
"Hey, hey." He held up his hands, that smirking half-apology men used when they didn’t want to admit wrongdoing. "It was a compliment. No harm in trying, right?"
Fiona didn’t answer right away. She was too busy scrubbing her palm against her skirt, trying to wipe off the skin-crawl.
"Goodbye, Mr. Granger," Fiona said, her voice nothing more than professional. "If you have any further questions about Marcus's progress, you can schedule another conference through the office."
His expression darkened. "Jesus. Don’t be a bitch. Lighten up—I was trying to be nice."
Nice. Like hitting on your child's teacher in her own classroom was a favor.
"Please leave," she said firmly.
He pushed off from the desk with exaggerated casualness. "Your loss, sweetheart."
After he left, Fiona closed her classroom door and stood in the center of her space—her safe, sacred space—letting herself be angry for a minute.
She thought about the old Fiona—the one who would have smiled and deflected, who would have worried about making him uncomfortable.
This Fiona knew better.
She opened her laptop and typed up an incident report for the principal. Professional. Factual. Unemotional.
But as the adrenaline faded, something else crept in. A bone-deep exhaustion that had nothing to do with the long day or difficult parent.
All she wanted was to go home.
Not to Emma's guest room with its borrowed comfort. And definitely not to the depressing studio apartment she'd looked at yesterday.
Home. To their apartment. To Dean waiting with coffee already made and arms that knew exactly how to hold her when the world felt sharp around the edges. To the safety of being known completely, protected completely.
How was that still her first instinct? After everything—after the betrayal, after the humiliation—how was Dean still the person she wanted to run to when she felt unsafe?
She pressed her palms against her eyes, willing the feeling away.
Because she wasn't available. Not for Troy with his wallet and his 'sweetheart.' Not for anyone who saw her kindness as weakness.
And not for the man who had taught her that even love could be dangerous.
Even if some traitorous part of her heart still called his name when the world got too loud. It was too late. That man was gone. He’d never existed. And Fiona was doing what was necessary.
The lawyer’s office was still too cold. Fiona sat perched on the edge of the chair like she wasn’t sure whether she was meant to be here. Her rep swept into the room with a thin file and a tight expression.
She didn’t sit right away.
Fiona straightened. “Did something go wrong?”
The woman gave a small sigh, then lowered herself into the chair and opened the file. “We got a response from her husband’s counsel.”
The words registered. It felt like watching someone else’s life play out from behind glass—quiet, weightless, inevitable.
The attorney continued. “He’s contesting.”
Fiona’s pulse picked up. “Why?” she asked, genuinely baffled. “I’m not asking for anything.”
The woman slid a few pages across the table. “That’s… sort of the problem.”
Fiona scanned the documents, brow furrowed. Her name. His. Legal language she couldn’t make sense of. Until one sentence jumped out at her like it was written in red ink:
Respondent requests petitioner be awarded the marital residence and fifty percent of future income.
Her mouth fell open. “He’s contesting to give me more?”
The rep tapped her pen against the desk. “He wants you to have the apartment outright. No strings. No repayment.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. He loves that apartment. He—he bought it before we even met. He’s obsessed with that stupid crown molding.”
“He also wants you to receive half his income.”
Fiona stared at her. “For how long?”
“That’s the part we were unclear on. So we called to clarify.”
She waited a beat before saying softly, “Honey. I think he intends it to be for life.”
Fiona’s stomach flipped. “But that’s not how it works. That’s not what courts do.”
“No,” her rep agreed. “Not typically. Especially not in a no-kids, short-term marriage. But he’s pushing for it. His team framed it as non-negotiable on his end.”
Fiona shook her head slowly, like the motion might undo what she was hearing. “Why would he do that?”
Her rep’s tone softened. “Sometimes, people try to fix the harm they’ve caused with money.”
Fiona’s hands were cold on her lap. She didn’t know what to feel—rage? Gratitude? Shame? All of them tangled together, suffocating her breath.
“He thinks he can pay off what he did.”
“He might,” the woman said gently. “But you don’t have to accept it.”
Fiona looked down at the page again. The apartment. The income. She didn’t understand why he was giving it all to her.