Never Again Until You

Chapter_6-Champagne-and-rage

Lisa POV

I never imagined what freedom would taste like, but tonight, it tastes like bitterness cut with bubbles.

Rosa grins as she pops the cork, the champagne fizzing and spilling over the rim like a tiny celebration that doesn't belong to me. The lights in her apartment are soft, golden, far too warm for the storm in my chest.

“To you, Lisa,” she says, lifting her glass high, “for finally walking away from that bastard.”

I flinch at the word—not because it’s untrue, but because it’s real. Travis. My husband. Ex-husband now. It feels like the syllables of that title still burn the back of my throat when I try to swallow them down.

“I don’t want to celebrate him,” I mutter, swirling the liquid in my glass. “I don’t even want to say his name tonight.”

Rosa leans back, her silver-streaked hair catching the glow. “Then don’t. This isn’t about him. It’s about you. You survived.”

I Did, didn't I?

I take a sip—too big, too fast—and cough a little. The bubbles sting. Everything stings these days.

She studies me, the way only Rosa can. She’s been my mentor, my friend, my fiercest critic in the design world, but tonight she’s more than that—she’s the only one who stayed.

“Lisa,” she says softly, “you can’t keep bleeding out like this. He took enough.”

I laugh—a hollow, bitter sound that feels wrong in my own mouth. “He didn’t just take. He shredded what was left. Seven years, Rosa. Seven years I gave him. And for what? So I could find him in our bed, with her?”

I see flashes of that night every time I close my eyes—her hair spilling over my pillow, her lips curling into something that looked like guilt but felt like victory. My best friend. My shadow. The woman who stood next to me at my wedding.

Rosa pours me more before I can protest. “Then let this be the funeral,” she says. “Tonight, we bury it all.”

The champagne tastes a little sweeter the second time. Or maybe I’m just going numb.

“What if I can’t?” I whisper. “What if I don’t know how to start over?”

She leans forward, her elbow resting on the table, her gaze steady. “Then fake it. Until one day it’s not fake anymore. Until you remember who you were before him.”

Who I was.

That woman feels like a ghost now—bright-eyed, ambitious, believing in happy endings and breakfast kisses and anniversaries that meant something. I remember the girl who sketched designs on napkins, who wanted a studio by the harbor, who believed she could love someone forever without becoming invisible.

“I’m tired, Rosa,” I admit, my voice cracking. “Tired of being strong for everyone else. Tired of pretending it doesn’t hurt.”

She squeezes my hand. “Then stop pretending. Rage is allowed. Hurt is allowed. Drink, curse, scream if you need to. But don’t stay there, cariño. Don’t live in the ruins.”

I set the glass down and stare at the bubbles as they fade. I don’t want to live in the ruins. But they’re all I know.

Somewhere between the second glass and the first tear, I start talking—really talking. About the anniversary trip I had planned, the wine I bought, the dress I wore when I walked into that room thinking I was loved. About the way he looked at me—startled, annoyed, like I was an inconvenience in my own home.

Rosa doesn’t interrupt. She lets me spill every ugly, trembling word until the night feels thick with them.

When I finally stop, I feel raw. Hollowed out. But lighter.

“You know what comes next?” she asks.

“What?”

“Living. Not to show him what he lost. For you.”

I shake my head, a bitter smile tugging at my lips. “I don’t even know what that looks like anymore.”

“Then we’ll find out together.”

She raises her glass again, this time slower, steadier. “To rage,” she says, “and to the woman you’re going to become.”

I clink mine against hers. “To the woman I used to be,” I murmur.

But deep down, a small, dangerous part of me whispers: No. To the woman who’s coming next.

The one who won’t be fooled again.

The one who will never beg for crumbs of love.

The one who will rebuild—brick by jagged brick—until even the ghosts of her past are afraid to knock.

The champagne is gone before midnight. Rosa snores softly on the couch, her arm draped over the armrest like a fallen queen. I stand at her balcony, staring at the city lights.

It feels like standing on the edge of something. Not quite healing, not quite destruction.

Somewhere out there, Travis is probably asleep. Melody too. Maybe in the same bed. Maybe not. It doesn’t matter.

What matters is that I am here. Breathing. Bleeding still, yes. But breathing.

I press my fingers to the glass door, cold against my skin. The city doesn’t care about my broken vows. The stars don’t mourn my lost years. Life keeps moving—indifferent, relentless.

And maybe… maybe I can too.

Tomorrow, I’ll start again. I don’t know where yet. I don’t know how. But tonight, at least, I let the rage out.

And I swear to myself—quietly, fiercely—that one day, I’ll feel something better than this.

Not forgiveness.

But maybe… something close to freedom.