Page 74 of The Yoga Teacher

The guest room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the bedside lamp and the light bleeding in from the hallway.

Mia and James were at their cooking class—the one with wine and mess and music, the kind Hannah had once suggested to Daniel, back when she still believed in that kind of together.

She sat on the edge of the narrow bed, suitcase still zipped at her feet. Her hands were clasped in her lap, but her fingers wouldn’t stop moving—pressing against each other, curling, uncurling.

The silence wasn’t peaceful.

It was heavy. Stretched thin.

Daniel’s voice still echoed in her head, like a ghost that didn’t know it was dead.

Seven.

Back office.

Showers.

Hair.

Her mouth.

His hands.

Hannah pressed her knuckles against her sternum like she could dig the memories out.

The room around her smelled faintly like lavender. Mia had left out a fresh towel. A small vase of wildflowers sat on the dresser. Everything here was soft. Safe. Kind.

And none of it belonged to her.

Her breath caught.

She hadn’t want to cry in front of Daniel.

But now, alone in someone else’s guest room—someone else’s life—her vision swam.

She blinked hard.

The images were too clear. The way Daniel had touched Sienna. The way he used to touchher.

She’d once been the only person who knew those parts of him.

Now they were just... shared. Worn.

Her fists clenched in her lap.

He hadworshippedher. Had learned her body like a language.

And then he’d given it away.

Not with love.

Just with want.

Thoughtless. Empty.

She breathed in sharply through her nose.

This had to be the last time. The last time she curled up in the aftershocks of him. The last time she let herself feel this—this ache, this hollow,thisversion of grief that felt more like humiliation.

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