39. Fiona
Fiona
The fluorescent lights were too bright, casting everything in that particular shade of institutional beige that made Fiona feel like she was back in the principal's office.
She shifted in the uncomfortable chair, her work bag balanced on her knees, still wearing the cardigan that smelled faintly of classroom markers and hand sanitizer.
“Thanks for stopping by,” her lawyer said, shuffling through files with the efficient weariness of someone who'd been doing this job too long. "I wanted to go over your husband's latest response before we move forward."
Ex-husband, Fiona corrected silently, though the words still felt foreign in her mind.
"He's not backing down on the financial terms," the woman continued, pulling out a thick stack of papers. "In fact, his team sent over additional documentation. He wants to establish a trust."
Fiona's stomach flipped—not with dread, but with something that felt dangerously close to relief. "A trust?"
"For your long-term security. The apartment transfer, the income sharing—he wants it all legally protected. Irrevocable." She looked up over her reading glasses. "Honey, this man is trying to make sure you never have to worry about money again."
The words washed over her like warm water. Never worry about money again. No more 6 AM spreadsheets. No more choosing between rent and groceries. No more panic attacks in grocery store parking lots.
No more being afraid.
"What exactly does that mean?" Fiona asked, hating how small her voice sounded.
"It means you'd have the apartment—no mortgage, no rent. It means a monthly income for life. Enough to live comfortably, pursue whatever you want. Go back to school, travel, focus on teaching without worrying about your salary covering everything."
Fiona closed her eyes. She could picture it—the apartment she'd loved, the one with the crown molding Dean was so proud of and the kitchen where they'd cooked together on Sunday mornings. Security. Stability. The kind of safety net she'd never had growing up.
The kind of protection she'd felt in Dean's arms just nights ago on Emma's porch.
"Does that make me weak?" she whispered, more to herself than to her lawyer.
"What?"
Fiona opened her eyes. "Wanting it. Wanting him to... take care of me."
Her lawyer's expression softened. "Sweetie, wanting security isn't weakness. It's human."
But that wasn't really what she meant, and they both probably knew it. It wasn't just the money she wanted—though God, she wanted the money, wanted to never feel that sick panic of not having enough ever again.
It was that Dean was the one offering it.
Dean, who knew exactly how much her monthly expenses were because he'd been paying them for two years.
Dean, who understood that she worried about money because she'd grown up without it.
Dean, who was still trying to be her safe place even after she'd left him.
Even after he'd lost the right to be.
"What if I said yes?" she asked quietly. "To all of it?"
"Then you'd be set for life," her lawyer said simply. "And you'd be accepting what a lot of people would consider very generous terms from someone who clearly still cares about your wellbeing."
Fiona stared down at the papers, at the numbers that represented a kind of security she'd never dreamed of having.
It would mean Dean was still taking care of her. Still looking out for her. Still making sure she was safe and provided for, the way he used to do with coffee in bed and surprise shortbread and arms that felt like home.
Maybe that did make her weak.
Maybe she didn't care.
"He wants to what?" Emma nearly choked on her wine, setting the glass down hard enough to slosh red onto the kitchen table.
Fiona pulled her legs up under herself on the couch, wrapping the throw blanket tighter around her shoulders. "Move out this weekend. His lawyer called mine today. He's already started packing."
"The apartment he's owned forever?"
"That's the one." Fiona's voice was small. "He wants me to have it. No strings attached."
Emma stared at her, mouth slightly open. "Jesus, Fi. That's..."
"Crazy?"
"I was going to say intense. But yeah, also crazy." Emma got up to grab the wine bottle, topping off both their glasses. "What did you tell the lawyer?"
"That I needed time to think about it."
"And what are you actually thinking?"
Fiona was quiet for a long moment, staring into her wine like it might have answers.
"I'm thinking about Sunday mornings," she said finally.
"About making coffee in that kitchen and reading the paper by the big windows.
About the way the light comes in during the afternoon and hits the hardwood just right. "
"You love that apartment."
"It was our home, you know?" Her voice cracked slightly. "Even if it was his first. We made it ours together. The books on the shelves, the photos on the walls, the way we arranged the furniture so we could both read on the couch without fighting over the good lamp."
Emma settled back into her chair, watching Fiona carefully. "But?"
"But it's also where he sat every night, judging me, thinking I was a moron.” Fiona's hands tightened around her wine glass. "How do I live there without thinking about that?"
"Maybe you don't," Emma said gently. "Maybe you make new memories. Better ones."
"Or maybe I'm just setting myself up to be dependent on him forever. Maybe this is just another way for him to control the situation."
Emma leaned forward. "Do you really think that's what this is?"
Fiona considered it. It wasn’t control. It was Dean giving her everything and walking away.
“No,” she admitted. "If this was some calculated ploy to win me back, it’d be easier to walk away." Her voice cracked. "But it’s not. He’s just... being decent."
She stared down at her wine glass, twisting it slightly between her fingers.
“I think he's genuinely trying to take care of me. And part of me thinks I'm an idiot for wanting to let him."
"Why would that make you an idiot?"
"I should be stronger than this. I should want to make it on my own, prove I don't need anyone. Instead, I'm sitting here thinking about how nice it would be to never worry about rent again. How good it would feel to have him still looking out for me, even from a distance."
Emma was quiet.
Fiona's eyes filled with tears. "What if I take it and he thinks it means I forgive him? What if he thinks it means there's still a chance?"
"Then you'll set him straight." Emma reached over and squeezed her hand.
"But what if..." Fiona's voice dropped to barely a whisper, shame coloring every word. "What if there is a chance? What if some terrible, stupid part of me still wants there to be?"
Emma didn't let go of her hand.
"I know I shouldn't," Fiona continued, the words tumbling out now. "I know what he did was unforgivable. I know I deserve better. But Em, when he held me on the porch the other night, it felt like coming home. And that scares me more than anything."
"Hey," Emma said softly. "Look at me."
Fiona met her sister's eyes, tears spilling over.
"Loving someone who hurt you doesn't make you weak or stupid," Emma said firmly. "It makes the situation complicated as hell, but it doesn't make you wrong for feeling it."
"Even after everything he did?"
"Even then. Hearts don't follow logic, Fi. If they did, half the love songs in the world wouldn't exist." Emma's voice was gentle but steady. "The question isn't whether you still love him. The question is what you want to do about it."
Fiona wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "I don't know. I don't know anything anymore."
"Then don't decide tonight. Take the apartment because you love it and you deserve it. Everything else... you can figure out later."