Page 31 of The Yoga Teacher

She thought suddenly of Sienna. Young, perfect Sienna.

She swallowed the sudden lump in her throat, pushing the thought away. She had work to do.

“Give me five minutes,” she said, already heading toward her office.

Morgan saluted. “I’ll try to keep the chaos to a minimum until then.”

Inside her office, Hannah shut the door and let out a slow breath.

The walls were lined with photos from past events—smiling faces, hands clasped in conversation, moments of connection frozen in time. Proof that what she did mattered.

She needed to focus. Tobehere.

For them.

Forherself.

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She had opened her laptop with purpose. Typed the words with steady fingers, even though her whole body felt like it was splintering apart.

How to get a divorce.

The search bar blinked at her like a warning.

This wasn’t morbid curiosity. This wasn’t a late-night spiral. This was deliberate.

Because she had to know. She needed to know.

What it would take to end a marriage with a man she had once imagined growing old with. A man who used to warm her socks in the dryer on cold mornings. Who used to kiss the inside of her wrist like it was sacred.

Her husband.

Her forever.

HerDaniel.

Her pulse thudded as the screen filled with tabs—step-by-step guides, court filing procedures, legal jargon that made her feel numb. She scrolled anyway. Reading. Learning. Hurting.

She had been with him for almost seven years. Married for four.

She had believed in him. In them. In a future that wasn’t supposed to fracture like this.

Did he ever love me?

She had given him everything—her trust, her softness, her fears. The cracked, unvarnished version of herself that no one else had ever been allowed to hold.

And he’d thrown it away.

She thought of the yoga studio. Of Sienna’s voice. The way Daniel had looked.

Had he already let her go, long before Hannah knew she needed to hold on tighter?

The ache in her chest bloomed sharper.

She wasn’t just mourning a betrayal. She was mourning a life. A dream. A thousand tiny routines that used to feel like permanence—coffee in bed, joint grocery lists, the feel of his hand brushing her hip in the dark.

All of it, gone.

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