Then he’d damn well make sure the lesson wasn’t wasted.
Dean staredat the bank app for a long time before he moved.
Eight thousand seventy-two dollars and eighteen cents. That’s what he'd earned from @shitfionasays. Sponsored posts. Affiliate links. Monetized mockery. Eight thousand and change for turning the best person he'd ever known into a character that strangers laughed at.
He’d told himself the jokes were harmless. That Fiona didn’t mind. That people loved her.
He hadn’t asked.
Dean opened a new tab and typed in the name of the anti-bullying fund Fiona had once mentioned after a school event. He remembered how she'd glowed when she talked about how one of her students had raised $27 in nickels and dimes because he "wanted school to feel safer."
At the time, Dean had made a joke about the logo. Something snide.
Now, he clicked through the site slowly. Read the mission statement. The donation tiers. The testimonials. His stomach twisted.
This was where the money belonged. Not in his account. Not tied to his name.
He typed the full amount into the custom donation field. $8,072.18.
He didn’t check the box for a receipt. Didn’t want the tax credit. Didn’t want his name on the donor wall. He checked “anonymous” and hit submit.
The confirmation screen flashed up, green and crisp and final.
Dean sat back.
There was no applause. No redemption music. No Fiona suddenly walking through the door and forgiving him.
@missfionasays had posted something new.
His thumb moved before his brain could stop it, tapping on her profile like he'd been doing obsessively for weeks now.
Kindness is not consent. Professionalism is not flirting. You are allowed to say no—clearly, and without apology.
The fury hit him like a freight train. White-hot rage that made his vision blur at the edges. Had someone put their hands on her? Some piece of shit had looked at Fiona—sweet, trusting Fiona—and seen an opportunity instead of a person.
Dean was on his feet before he realized he'd moved, chair rolling backward, jacket in his hands. He needed to go to her. He needed to drive to her school and?—
And what?
The reality crashed over him like ice water.
Someone had crossed her line. Someone had made her feel unsafe. Someone had cornered his wife and made heruncomfortable enough that she needed to post about boundaries and consent.
And he couldn’t be there for her.
He wasn't her protector anymore. He wasn't her safe place.
The impotence was almost worse than the rage. This helpless, useless fury that had nowhere to go. She was out there dealing with jerks and he was sitting in his climate-controlled office, completely fucking powerless to do anything about it.
She'd never needed his protection anyway. That was the thing that made his chest feel like it was caving in. Fiona had been handling herself just fine before he came along. She was handling herself just fine now.
She didn't need him.
And she didn't need his help.
Dean felt lightheaded for a moment. Well,fuck that, he thought.
She was getting it anyway.
