Chapter 5 The Pain I Hid

Lyssa POV

I interrupt, raising a brow. “Wow, I’ll be so rich.”

He pauses.

I take a pen.

Roland stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. Of course wondering how happy I am instead of crying.

I shrug casually. “Honestly, I think I’ll enjoy my new rich single-girl era.”

His eyes stayed blank, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face, concern? confusion? disbelief?

Probably all of the above.

I look up at him, my lips curving out a smile. “Thank you.”

I hold out my hand. “I’ll sign everything now.” I say.

Soon, I sign the papers and he left.

Then the dam breaks, I can’t possibly let anyone see me crying here.

I make it to my room just in time, slamming the door, locking it, sliding down the wood until my back hits the floor.

The first sob is silent, just a sharp inhale that rips my throat in emotional pain. The second one isn’t. They come hard and ugly, choking as I struggle to breath, my shoulders shaking, fists pressed against my mouth so the maids won’t hear.

I cry the way I haven’t since I was twelve and lost my parents, the way I swore I’d never cry over a man, that I’ll just accept my fate and move on.

But he isn’t just any man. He’s Zeta. My Zeta. The only safe place I’ve ever known.

Every emotion I showed downstairs, every joke, every breezy smile, every calm was armor.

Cheap, flimsy armor that’s now lying in pieces around me. I acted strong because I didn’t have a choice.

So I smiled while my heart bled out.

I cry until my ribs ache and my eyes burn, until I feel the familiar throb starting behind my left temple. Migraine. Of course. My body’s favorite punishment for feeling too much.

I drag myself to the bathroom, hands shaking as I fumble with the the painkillers. Two tablets, dry-swallowed. I crawl into bed, curling up in the pool of my own tears. The sheets smell faintly of his cologne.

I pull the duvet over my head like I’m ten again and monsters are real as I try to comfort myself.

Sleep takes me under fast, the way it does when your body decides consciousness is no longer an option.

When I wake up, the room is pitch black except for the moonlight slicing through the curtains. My phone reads 2:07 a.m.

Zero missed calls from Zeta.

Of course there aren’t. He’s with her. Probably hasn’t thought about me once since he walked out the door.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but the images come anyway, his hand on her, laugh in his ear, confessing love to her.

Fresh tears leak out the corners of my eyes, hot against the pillow.

I grab my phone to distract myself, open I*******m because pain enjoys company, apparently.

The i*******m algorithm is cruel tonight.

The very first post on my feed is Isabella’s.

It’s a carousel.

First photo is the two of them on some rooftop garden lit by fairy lights, arms wrapped around each other, foreheads touching, smiling at themselves.

Second photo is a ridiculous bouquet of white roses and peonies, my favorite flowers, actually and a heart-shaped box of chocolates from the brand shop in SoHo we used to go to together. He’d got it for her.

Third photo is they’re kissing while the photo was taken.

The caption; “5 years later and my heart still skips when you walk into a room. Home is wherever you are, Z. I love you so much.”

Seven thousand likes in four hours. The comments are worse.

They’re perfect together omg

The way he looks at her.

Welcome back to the queen.

Poor Lyssa… girl must be dying right now.

Imagine being the placeholder wife for three years lmaoo.

She knew he never got over Bella.

This is what real love looks like.

Every word is a knife. Twist, pull out, stab again into my heart.

I read them anyway. I read them until the screen blurs and I can’t tell if it’s tears or my migraine coming back.

Everyone knew. The whole damn city knew I was in love with my own husband . They watched me play the grateful little orphan turned wife and they pitied me. Or worse, they laughed.

I wipe my face.

“It’s for the better, Lyssa,” I say to myself.

I close I*******m. My thumb hovers over the mail app.

The university acceptance email has been sitting there for a week. I open the draft response I never finished and then deleted my initial message of refusing the admission. Then I write a new one.

Dear Admissions Committee,

This is a great news. Thank you for selecting me as one of your students. I am ready to move on to the next step of the admission process. Please let me know what paperwork or deposits are required.

Best regards,

Lyssa Zeta

My thumb hovers over as I hit the send button.