Never Again Until You

Chapter2-In our bed

Lisa POV

I didn’t sleep that night.

I lay on a borrowed couch at Rosa’s apartment, staring at the ceiling as dawn crept in through the cracked blinds. My phone sat face-down on the coffee table, buzzing occasionally like a roach that wouldn’t die. I hadn’t touched it since blocking Travis and Melody.

The coffee Rosa gave me hours ago had long gone cold, untouched. She’d offered to stay up with me, even offered her bedroom, but I told her I needed silence more than sympathy. And she understood, the way only a woman who’s been shattered before can understand.

My eyes burned. My skin felt foreign.

I still wore the same clothes from last night. My lipstick had smeared sometime around heartbreak, and I could still smell him on my coat.

I needed to erase it all.

I needed to go back.

Not for him. Not for us.

For me.

The building concierge barely looked up when I walked in. Maybe I looked like a mess, maybe he’d already heard the whispers. I didn’t care.

I took the elevator alone, each floor ticking up like a countdown to war.

When the doors opened, I half expected Travis to be there—red-eyed, apologetic, dramatic. But the hallway was still.

Silent.

I unlocked the penthouse with the key I hadn’t yet thrown away and stepped into what used to be home.

Everything looked the same.

But nothing felt the same.

The vase of roses on the counter. The framed wedding photo. The lingering scent of his cologne in the air.

My stomach churned.

I moved on instinct, not emotion.

Trash bags. Suitcases. A playlist on full blast in my earbuds to drown out every memory.

I started with my things.

Closet. Bathroom. Desk. Art supplies. Sketchpads filled with designs I once dreamed of sharing with him. I threw them into a duffel bag with shaking hands.

Then I turned toward the bedroom.

And paused.

The bed was still unmade.

Sheets tangled, pillows creased, the faintest indentations where their bodies had been.

In our bed.

I walked over slowly, staring at the mess like it was a crime scene.

Because it was.

I reached down, grabbed the sheets, and ripped them from the mattress. The fitted one fought me, clinging to the corners like it didn’t want to let go.

Neither had I.

But now I did.

I stuffed everything—sheets, pillows, the stupid monogrammed throw blanket he insisted we get—into the trash bag. Then I lit a lavender-scented candle on the dresser.

The irony was almost poetic. Something to cover the stink of betrayal.

I wasn’t crying. Not anymore.

The numbness was worse.

An hour later, I heard the door open.

Travis.

His face looked like he hadn’t slept either. Hair messy, shirt wrinkled. Like regret had dragged him across the floor all night.

Good.

“Lisa,” he said, like my name still belonged to him. “I—can we talk?”

I zipped up the suitcase.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” I replied without looking at him.

He stepped inside, cautiously. Like I was a wild animal that might snap. Maybe I was.

“It was a mistake,” he said. “I was drunk, and—”

“Don’t,” I said sharply, turning to face him. “Don’t insult me with excuses. Don’t act like you tripped and fell into her.”

He flinched.

“You planned it,” I continued. “You had to. The candles, the music, the bedroom. You made a whole scene—our scene—and gave it to her.”

He tried to approach me. “Lisa, I swear—”

I stepped back. “You don’t swear anything anymore. Not to me.”

His face twisted. “So that’s it? You’re just going to throw away everything we had?”

I laughed. Cold and sharp. “You already did. I’m just taking out the trash.”

I walked past him, suitcase in one hand, trash bag in the other.

He reached for my wrist. “Please. I still love you.”

I yanked away. “Then maybe you should’ve loved me in our bed—instead of screwing my best friend in it.”

Silence fell like a hammer between us.

And just like that, he had no more words.

I walked to the door, opened it, and before stepping through, I looked back one last time.

At him.

At us.

At the broken thing I used to call home.

“I’ll have the papers sent tomorrow,” I said. “Happy anniversary, Travis.”

Then I left.

Outside, the sun was fully up. Birds chirping, sky soft with the blush of morning. The world was still spinning, even if mine had stopped.

But something in me shifted as I walked out of that building—free, raw, untethered.

I wasn’t a wife anymore.

Because pain doesn’t just shatter—it sharpens. It chisels away the softness, the hesitation, the parts of you that once begged to be loved.

I used to think love was safety. That forever meant protection. That promises were ironclad.

Now I knew better.

Now I knew that love could be a knife. That trust could bleed. That even the most sacred vows could be broken with moans and lies and silk sheets tangled around betrayal.

And I wasn’t going to cry about it anymore.

I was going to rise.

Not for revenge. Not for him.

For me.

Because every woman who’s ever been broken deserves to see what she becomes when she puts herself back together—piece by brutal piece.

I didn’t know what would come next.

But I knew one thing:

I would never be that girl again.

The girl who waited. The girl who forgave too easily. The girl who softened herself to fit inside someone else’s idea of love.

No.

The next version of me would be untouchable.

Unshakable.

Unapologetic.

As I walked away from the ruins of our life, I felt the wind pick up, threading through my coat, whispering through my hair.

And for the first time in a long time—

I felt alive.

And somewhere in the distance, fate stirred. Watching. Waiting.

Because my story wasn’t over.

It was just beginning.