The cityoutside 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 ofherhe’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 naïve. 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 feltlucky.
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.
