Page 46 of The Yoga Teacher

And then she said, “And then one day I walked into a yoga studio and found my husbandinsideanother woman.”

The words detonated between them—soft, steady, cataclysmic.

The words sliced him.

He took a half step closer. “That wasn’t real. It didn’t mean anything—”

“Stop.”

He did.

Hannah exhaled slowly, steadying herself. “You don’t get to come in here and rewrite the story to make it easier for you to live with. I know what I saw. And I know what it broke inside me.”

It hit him—not in a poetic, cinematic way, but like a dull, sick thud in his chest. This wasn’t just a fight.

He looked at her—really looked—and saw it in her posture. In the calm, clear steadiness of her gaze. She was done.

Silence stretched. Somewhere down the hall, someone laughed. A printer whirred to life. Normalcy droning on in a world that had been reshaped entirely for them both.

“I will never forgive what you did,” she said.

Something cracked in his chest, quiet and internal. Not loud enough to show on his face—but it echoed everywhere inside.

Daniel turned to leave.

His hand was on the doorknob when she said quietly, “I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for. I really do.”

He looked back at her.

But she’d already turned away.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Daniel

DANIEL SAT AT the kitchen table, staring at the blank wall ahead of him.

He had thought—stupidly, selfishly, pathetically thought—that he could fix this. That he just needed to talk to her, say the right things, remind her of everything they had.

He bent forward, pressing his forehead against the edge of the table.

He couldn’t lose her.

He couldn’t.

Daniel exhaled sharply, rubbing his hands down his face. He needed—fuck, he didn’t know what he needed.

He needed to talk to someone.

For years, it had always been Hannah. She was the one who made sense of things. The one who listened, who saw through his bullshit, who made him feel like—like he was worth something.

But she wasn’t there anymore. And he had no one to blame but himself.

His chest ached, a deep, raw pulse of loss, and before he could think better of it, he grabbed his phone, swiping through his contacts.

James? No chance in hell.

His coworkers? They only saw the version of him that existed in meetings, in pitch rooms—polished, in control. Not… this.

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