Chapter Twenty-Two - Daniel
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Daniel
DANIEL LEANED AGAINST the counter in the break room, watching the slow drip of the coffee machine like it held the answers to his life. His head throbbed, a dull, insistent ache that had nothing to do with lack of caffeine and everything to do with the wreckage of his personal life.
It felt like an eternity since Hannah left.
Since she cut him out, erased him, refused to engage.
“You should’ve come out last night," Tristan’s voice cut through, quiet, casual and easy. Too easy. The kind of effortless confidence that came from being twenty-four and untethered.
Daniel glanced at him. Tristan was leaned back against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, smirking like a guy who had never lost anything worth holding onto.
"Yeah?" Daniel muttered, lifting his coffee to his lips.
Tristan smiled, shaking his head. “Crazy night." He exhaled a short laugh, running a hand through his hair. "We hit that rooftop bar downtown—girls everywhere."
Daniel took a slow sip, ignoring the way something in his chest clenched.
"I’m telling you," Tristan continued, grinning like he held the secret to happiness, "you and that wife of yours need to come out with us sometime.”
Daniel let out a vague sound—something between a hum and a breath—that didn’t commit to anything at all.
"You should’ve seen this girl I took home," Tristan went on, shaking his head. "Body was out of this world. And she was so into me, man. Like, aggressive about it." He laughed, taking a long sip of his drink. "That’s the best part—when they make it easy for you."
Daniel swallowed, the words landing harder than he expected. Sienna had made it easy for him. She’d been confident, unapologetic—her interest not wrapped in hesitation or compromise. Young. Hot. Certain.
And she’d wanted him .
In spite of his age, his stress, his mortgage.
He wasn’t dead. He wasn’t ancient. He was a thirty-year-old guy with money, a good job, and zero responsibilities tying him down.
Why the fuck wasn’t he doing what Tristan was doing?
Why was he spending his nights staring at his phone, waiting for Hannah to unblock him?
She wasn’t the only woman in the world.
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Daniel’s phone buzzed.
He didn’t look at it right away. His inbox had been a disaster for days—missed deadlines, unanswered threads, meetings he’d skimmed or skipped entirely. He kept telling himself he was just “off.” Just distracted. Just tired.
He’d fix it. Next week. Tomorrow. Soon.
He was staring at his screen, pretending to organize his inbox, when the notification popped up.
Subject: Representation and Intent to File – Hannah Rivers
His first thought was that it was a mistake.
A scam, maybe. A misfire. Someone else’s name attached to his.
But his eyes kept moving.
Please be advised that our office now represents Mrs. Hannah Rivers in the matter of marital dissolution. We are reaching out as a professional courtesy before the official filing...
His brain stalled.
The words sat there on the screen, cold and flat and impossible.
No.
She wouldn’t.
She couldn’t .
Hannah would talk to him. They’d fight, sure. They’d scream and say things they didn’t mean. But this? Lawyers?
This wasn’t her.
This wasn’t them.
His chest tightened.
He read the email again, slower this time.
And then again.
Hannah— his Hannah—had hired a lawyer.
The silence in his office felt surreal. People were still working, still laughing somewhere down the hall, still sending emails about printer malfunctions and catering budgets.
But for him, everything had just stopped.
Daniel leaned forward, elbows on the desk, one hand gripping the phone like it might float away. His other dragged across his face, trying to ground himself, trying to slow the dizzying spin in his head.
The knock at his door made him flinch.
He straightened reflexively, flipping the phone over like it was something shameful.
“Yo,” Tristan said, poking his head in, holding two mismatched mugs of shitty break room coffee. “You alive in here?”
Daniel nodded, barely.
Tristan grinned. “C’mon. Take a break. Coffee’s hot, and I’ve got gossip.”
Daniel stood stiffly, the motion mechanical. His hand hovered over the phone, a pulse of panic rising in his throat.
But what was he supposed to do? Call her? Beg?
He followed Tristan out into the hallway. The walls didn’t seem to move, but somehow they still felt like they were closing in.
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Daniel stared at his reflection in the darkened window of his office. The city stretched behind him, the skyline points of light against the night sky.
Tristan had left hours ago, still buzzing from his plans for the weekend, already texting some girl whose name he probably wouldn’t remember by morning.
Tristan talked about the clubs, the women, the "options out there" like the world was some endless buffet of bodies.
He could do that.
He should do that.
Wasn’t that the logical next step?
So why did the idea of going to some dark, overcrowded club make his stomach turn?
He could take someone home. He could fuck someone.
And then what?
Wake up next to a woman who wasn’t Hannah, feeling like he’d lost something all over again?
No.
This wasn’t how this ended.
He wasn’t going to become that guy—the one who let his life unravel, who leaned into the fall instead of stopping it.
Hannah was mad. She was hurt. But she was still his wife.
It was time to fix this.
Daniel exhaled sharply, setting his glass down with more force than necessary.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow, he’d go to her office.
He’d speak with her, say the right things.
He’d remind Hannah of what they had, of who they were.
She wasn’t the only woman in the world.
But she was the only one who mattered.