59. Fiona
Fiona
Fiona stood just inside the bar’s entryway, frozen.
She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop.
She’d pushed open the heavy wooden door expecting to find Dean alone. She hadn’t expected to see them .
Roxanne. Ava. Jared. Cam. The curated elite of Dean’s old life. The ones who’d once called her “wholesome” like it was a slur. The ones who’d smirked behind wine glasses whenever she spoke.
Her stomach went tight.
She should turn around. Leave. She didn’t want to see his awful friends, not anymore.
But then she heard them.
She heard Dean’s voice.
Fiona’s breath caught.
Dean’s voice was shaking, but he didn’t stop. He kept going . About her work, her kindness, the things she did that nobody ever noticed but that mattered— really mattered.
Fiona’s eyes burned.
She hadn’t expected this.
She needed a second. Needed to breathe.
Because suddenly, her chest felt full of splinters. Dean had humiliated her. Betrayed her.
But in that moment, he wasn’t that man.
In that moment, he was the man she had once believed in. The man who saw her clearly—finally. Fiercely.
And part of her, against all logic, ached at the sound of it.
Fiona pressed her palm to her sternum like she could slow the pounding in her chest.
She didn’t know what she felt.
It should’ve been triumph. Some self-righteous satisfaction that the man who’d humiliated her was now publicly flaying himself in front of the very people he’d once tried to impress.
But it wasn’t.
It was… ache.
It was too much, too fast. Her body couldn’t hold all of it: the heat of vindication, the sting of remembered betrayal, the sudden, painful flood of hope .
He’d called her kind. Brave. Important.
She swallowed hard, eyes burning.
How was she supposed to hold all of this? The memory of the online account that had gutted her. The way he’d smiled while people laughed at her. The long, slow erosion of trust that no apology could reverse.
But also?—
Also this man in the other room, voice shaking as he defended her like she was something important.
He wasn’t who he used to be. That was clear.
But was that enough?
Fiona curled her arms around herself, hugging her elbows, trying to stay grounded.
He sees me now , she thought.
And that was both everything she’d wanted and everything she wasn’t sure she could trust.
She took a deep breath, slow and steady.
She wasn’t that girl anymore either. The one who bent herself into shapes to be easy to love. The one who thought affection was the same as safety.
Fiona wiped under her eyes with the edge of her sleeve.
Fiona stepped forward and Dean's head snapped up. His face transformed—relief, hope, love.
He was wearing the faded concert tee from the boyband she’d dragged him to see, years ago. The one he’d teased her for loving. It tugged something in her chest she didn’t know was still tethered.
"Fiona." He was already standing, moving toward her chair before she'd even reached the table. "Thank you for coming. I wasn't sure—" He pulled out her chair.
She sat, hyperaware of his proximity, his body, the way he hovered until she was settled.
"Can I get you something? They have that wine you like—the Pinot Grigio. Or maybe something warm? It's cold out." His words tumbled over each other, eager and anxious.
“Wine is fine."
He flagged down the server immediately, ordering her drink.
The folder sat between them.
"What's that?" she asked.
He took a deep breath. "It's for you. I mean—it's about you. Your account. Your platform." He opened it carefully, revealing pages of notes, printouts. "Fiona, if you wanted to you could really reach people. Change lives."
She stared down at the pages. Professional layouts, engagement analytics, content calendars. It was thorough.
"I could take your photos," he continued, the words rushing out.
"Handle all the technical stuff. Editing, posting schedules, responding to comments.
You wouldn't have to think about any of it.
You could just focus on being yourself, and I could—I could make sure the world sees you the way you deserve to be seen. "
There was something heartbreaking in his earnestness. The way he leaned forward, hands gesturing as he walked her through follower growth projections and brand partnership possibilities.
"If you'd let me do this—if you'd let me help—I could show you that I understand now. What matters. Who you are."
Fiona touched the edge of one of the pages. The work was good. Really good. She could tell he’d spent time on this, thinking through every detail.
"I don't want this," she said softly.
Dean's face fell, but he nodded quickly. "Of course. I understand. That makes sense. I could recommend someone else, though. There are other photographers who?—"
"No, Dean." She looked up at him. "I don't want to scale up. I don't want brand partnerships or follower growth or any of it."
He blinked, confused. "But you're so good at it. Your posts—they're real. Authentic."
"I share what I want to share, when I want to share it. I'm not trying to build an empire. That's not why I post." Fiona closed the folder gently. "I post because sometimes I have something to say. Because sometimes I want to connect with people. But I don't want it to become a job."
"Oh." His voice was small. "I thought—I thought maybe if I could prove I understood your value?—"
"This isn't about proving anything." She reached across the table, almost touching his hand before pulling back. "I don't need a million followers to matter. I don't need brand deals to validate my worth. I just need to be respected by the people I care about.”
Dean slumped back in his chair.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I'm still getting it wrong."
Her glass of wine arrived and Fiona took a small sip.
“I don’t need a marketing team, Dean,” she said, quieter.
Dean nodded, throat working. “Okay.”
“I just need to know that if I let you close again, it won’t cost me myself.”
He looked up, startled by something in her voice. His eyes sharpened, just slightly—a flicker of desperate hope cutting through the defeat.
“I never want to cost you anything, ever again,” he said, voice steady now. “I fucked up and I’d do anything to have you back.”
Fiona looked at him, really looked at him.
There he was. Pathetic. Desperate. And honest. For once, truly honest.