This was Fiona's professional world. The place where she spent her days performing miracles with twenty-three ten-year-olds and a shoestring budget. And their public face looked like they'd given up trying.
Dean's fingers moved without conscious thought, clicking through pages, cataloging problems. Broken links. Outdated teacher bios. A fundraising section that looked like an afterthought.
He could fix this. All of it.
The thought hit him with a clarity that felt almost chemical. Not the hollow satisfaction of landing a luxury car account or crafting copy that convinced people they needed things they didn't want. This was different. This was about making Fiona's world—the world that mattered to her—shine the way it deserved to.
He imagined her seeing the new website for the first time. That little gasp she made when something surprised her. The way her eyes would light up when she realized her district finally looked as professional as the work they did.
His pulse quickened. It was pathetic, probably—getting high off the idea of making his estranged wife happy from a distance. But God, it felt better than anything he'd done at his actual job in years.
Dean scrolled to the district's contact page. The superintendent's email was buried at the bottom, probably to discourage exactly this kind of unsolicited outreach.
He started typing before he could second-guess himself, offering his services, pro bono.
Dean paused, cursor blinking. He’d added that his wife taught in the district. Technically true. But she didn’t want to be his wife anymore, and he’d lost the right to call her that.
He deleted the sentence, aggressively tapping the backspace until it was gone.
He could feel sorry for himself later.
Right now, he would concentrate on whatever he could do to make Fiona happy and safe. Everything he had failed to do up until now.
He hit send and sat back, something settling in his chest that felt suspiciously like purpose.
Dean stoodby the espresso machine in the break room, watching from a distance as the usual crowd clustered at the high-top table near the window. Cam, Roxanne, Ava, Jared—all glossy voices and too loud laughter. A slice of the agency’s social elite.
They didn’t look over.
Not once.
He hadn’t been invited to their rooftop drinks last week. Dean wasn’t stupid—he knew what was happening.
He was radioactive now.
There’d been a time when Dean would’ve cared—when being cut out of that table would’ve burned like hell.
Now? It just made his coffee taste stronger.
“Got any extra cream?” came a voice beside him.
Dean turned. It was Russell—the senior copywriter who worked mostly on government briefs and low-level education clients. The kind of guy most people overlooked unless they needed help with a union contract or a printer jam.
The guy who’d already retired and was just working through the notice period. The guy Dean didn’t need to be associating with, not if he didn’t want to risk losing office standing.
Dean handed over the little plastic cup. “Here you go.”
Russell grinned. “You’re a gentleman.”
They ended up sitting in the side break room together. Dean hadn’t meant to stay, but Russell had cracked a joke about the food truck line and suddenly they were unwrapping sandwiches and talking about the Dodgers.
Russell pulled out his wallet at one point—paper-thin from use—and fished for something. A receipt maybe. But when he flipped it open, Dean caught sight of a photograph tucked in behind his bus pass.
A small, sun-faded photo. A woman. Laughing, holding a beer at what looked like a backyard party. Crow’s feet. Wind-tossed hair. A real smile.
Dean couldn’t help but ask. “Is that your wife?”
Russell glanced down, and his face softened in a way Dean wasn’t used to seeing in this building.
