She was considering eating peanut butter for dinner.
He clicked confirm.
The transaction processed immediately. A green checkmark. Done.
Dean closed the laptop and sat back. Maybe she’d see it as pity or control or another violation of her boundaries.
But she was doing spreadsheets at 6 AM, calculating whether she could afford to live in the same city as her job. She was choosing between rent and groceries while he sat in an apartment that was supposed to be both of theirs.
She could hate him for it later. Right now, she needed to not be scared about money.
He'd deal with her fury when it came. Right now, all that mattered was that she was comfortable.
She’d left him, but giving her this was his right. His privilege of being her husband.
The conference roomwas all glass and ego.
Dean sat at the oval table, forcing himself to focus on the quarterly projections instead of the mess he’d made of his marriage.
Look at you,Dean thought.Sitting here like you belong. Like you're not a parasitic piece of shit who fed his wife to the wolves for likes.
Around him, twelve other account directors and senior VPs nodded along as Richard droned through engagement metrics.
"Speaking of viral content strategies," Richard said, clicking to the next slide, "I have to give a shout-out to one of our own."
Dean's blood turned to ice.
"Dean's personal brand work has been absolutelychef's kiss—brilliant. Let me pull this up as an example."
Richard's fingers flew across his laptop. The projector screen flickered, and suddenly there it was, blown up for everyone to see: @shitfionasays. Fiona's strawberry socks filled the massive screen. The caption underneath in crisp, corporate-presentation clarity.
A few knowing chuckles around the table. Dean felt the shame burn through him.
"Genius. Absolutely genius." Richard's smile was predatory as he gestured toward the giant display. "Twenty-three thousand followers and climbing, right?"
The account sat there on the 85-inch screen, larger than life. Fiona's private confession—her sleepy, trusting vulnerability—displayed like a PowerPoint slide for a room full of sharks.
How had he ever thought that this was ok?
You sick fuck,Dean thought about himself.You turned your wife into a joke.
"The engagement rates areinsane," added Jared, practically salivating as he looked at the screen.
Dean stared at the screen—at Fiona's socks, at his own words describing her like a specimen. His throat felt like he'd swallowed glass.
"And thecomments section!" Richard scrolled down, revealing the responses in huge font for everyone to admire. "People are absolutelyobsessed. You've tapped into something really primal here—that voyeuristic fascination with watching someone be completely unaware of how ridiculous they are."
They think I’m clever,Dean realized with a dull sense of horror.They think I’m a genius for destroying the person I claimed to love.
"The wife doesn't know about it, right?" This from James, one of the junior account managers, practically licking his lips as he gestured toward the screen. "That's what makes it soperfect. It's like... emotional trafficking."
More laughter. All while Fiona's most private moment glowed on the screen above them.
Dean wanted to crawl out of his own skin. These people—hispeople—were describing his marriage like a hunting expedition while his wife's trust was literally displayed like a trophy.
"She knows about it now," Dean said quietly.
"Oh, did you finally tell her?" Melissa's laugh was sharp. "How did she take it? I bet she wasflattered. Who wouldn't want to be internet famous? Did she ask you to post more content?"
