Chapter Fifty-Seven - Daniel
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Daniel
DANIEL STEPPED OUT of the elevator and into the ghost of his old life.
Same office plants. Same exposed brick. Same scent of coffee and stale ambition. But none of it felt familiar anymore. It all felt like walking through the echo of a person he used to be.
People looked up. A few nods. No one said welcome back.
He didn’t expect them to.
His office was still there—cleaner than he left it. Smaller than it looked in his memory. He sat. Logged in. His inbox had been triaged, thinned out, declawed. No one trusted him with fire yet.
He wasn’t coming back to lead.
He already knew that.
A voice cut through the office, warm and amused.
He didn’t need to turn. He knew what he’d see: that stupidly skinny tie, that stupidly perfect hair, that smile like life had never made him bleed for anything.
Tristan.
Daniel’s spine went stiff.
Tristan walked out of the kitchen laughing, a coffee mug in hand. And then he saw Daniel.
“Yo!” He lit up. “Didn’t know you were coming in today.”
Daniel forced a nod. “First day back.”
Tristan clapped him on the shoulder like they were equals. Like he hadn’t climbed into Daniel’s former life like it was a waiting Uber.
“Good to see you, man,” Tristan said, easy. “Actually—hey, meant to ask you something.”
Daniel didn’t look up.
“I, uh—bumped into Hannah the other week. That rooftop bar near the water tower? Crazy night.”
Daniel felt his fists clench.
Tristan kept going, oblivious. “Didn’t recognize her at first. She looked—” He whistled under his breath. “Good. Strong. Like she could kill a man with her thighs.”
Daniel’s stomach turned.
Because he knew her thighs. Had gripped them while her breath stuttered. Had clung to them the night he came too fast— humiliated himself —spilling inside her before she could even finish a gasp.
And now this boy—this child in business attire—was talking about her like she was a fuckable stranger. Like she wasn’t the only home Daniel had ever known.
His hand curled around the chain at his neck, like instinct. The gold of her ring was warm against his chest.
Tristan leaned against the edge of Daniel’s desk. “Anyway. We talked for a while. She’s amazing.”
Daniel could feel the shape of her ring under his shirt. Could feel it against his skin like a brand.
“You two are officially done, right?” Tristan said casually. “I mean, the divorce is happening?”
Daniel didn’t answer. Rage burned so hot in his chest he thought his skin might split. But his face stayed still.
Tristan didn’t know. Didn’t know what Daniel had already seen him there with Hannah. Had witnessed him that morning, disheveled and satisfied.
Didn’t know that Daniel had fucked it all up so badly he couldn’t even blame her for moving on.
“Just figured I’d check before reaching out,” Tristan added. “Wanted to be respectful. No weirdness.”
Daniel’s voice came low. Controlled.
“We’re still married.”
Tristan blinked. “Oh. Shit—I thought—”
“Nothing’s been filed,” Daniel said. “No court dates. No legal proceedings.”
Tristan shifted. “But you’re separated?”
Daniel wanted to lie. He wanted to punch Tristan in the face, tell him to keep his hands off Hannah, he wanted to keep her for himself. “Technically, yes, we’re separated,” he said instead.
Tristan smiled. “Cool. I mean—not cool, but—appreciate the clarity, man. Didn’t want to cross a line.”
Daniel didn’t smile.
He was remembering the slope of her waist. The way her mouth opened just before she came. The way she tasted when she—
He shoved the thought down like a scream.
Because it wasn’t just love.
It was lust, too. Ugly, searing, consuming. He still wanted her. Still ached for her. Still woke up hard some nights with her name on his lips and nothing in his hands but air.
And now Tristan wanted her.
Was probably already planning what to say when he called.
Tristan gave him a light tap on the desk. “Anyway—glad you’re back. Let me know if you want to loop in on the Anderson pitch.”
He walked off, joining a cluster of interns by the whiteboard, already laughing, already lighting up the room like it had never gone dark.
Daniel stared at the empty space where Tristan had been.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Because if he did, he might say something unfixable.
He turned back to his monitor. The screen glowed blue. His reflection looked pale. Wrecked. Forgettable.
But somewhere deep in his chest, the fury still burned.
He was the only one who should be allowed to touch her.
He was the one who loved her. Who had memorized her. Who had held her when she sobbed over things she couldn’t speak aloud. Who had thought they would have forever.
Until he’d destroyed it.
Until he’d let it rot in his hands.
And now—would he have to watch someone else discover her?
He’d have to live with that.
And if she ever reached for him again, he’d still take it.
Even if it broke him all over again.
He didn’t want scraps. He wanted every inch of her. But he’d take whatever she offered.
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Daniel’s phone buzzed just as he stepped out of the laundromat, basket balanced on one hip, the scent of detergent still clinging to his sleeves. He shifted the weight, glanced at the screen.
Hannah.
The notification lit up his screen like a flare, and Daniel’s heart lurched—violent and immediate. He hadn’t even opened the message yet.
Her name alone was a hit of adrenaline, a punch of longing so sharp it bordered on hunger. Greedy, that’s what he was. Starving for scraps. He’d take anything she gave him—a glance, a word, a goddamn syllable.
He unlocked his phone with a thumb that suddenly didn’t feel steady.
I want to have a joint therapy session.
Daniel stared at it so long the screen dimmed in his hand.
A gust of wind picked up. A receipt fluttered off the top of his laundry pile. He didn’t chase it.
He read the message again.
And again.
His heart pounded against his ribs like it didn’t trust what it was seeing. Like the words might rearrange themselves if he blinked too fast.
Therapy.
Together.
She was willing to sit in a room with him.
Willing to look at him. To speak to him in front of someone who would see the cracks.
He wanted to scream. He wanted to sob. He wanted to run straight to her door and fall to his knees and say Yes, yes, anything, I’ll go wherever you want me.
But instead, he stood there, dumb and breathless on a cracked sidewalk with a basket of damp socks, trying to remember how to breathe.
This wasn’t a reconciliation.
It wasn’t hope.
It was something harder. Sharper.
This was Hannah choosing structure. Boundaries. Truth.
She had offered him a match. He could light it or burn everything down.
A flicker of memory surfaced— his hands on Sienna’s hips, the feel of her body, of moving inside her, the sound of Hannah’s voice.
He hated that memory. Hated how small it made him feel. How filthy. How easy it had been to ruin something sacred.
But he would carry it.
Like all the others.
Because he wasn’t doing this for comfort.
He was doing this for her.
Back at the motel, he set the laundry basket down and opened his laptop with shaking hands.
He typed out an email.
Hi Dr. Ellis — I’d like to set up a joint session with Hannah. She’s open to it. She asked for it. I want to make sure I don’t waste this chance. Please tell me when you can see us. I’ll take anything. Morning, night, weekend. Doesn’t matter. I’ll be there. I just need this to go right.
He hovered his finger over “send.”
Then pressed it.
Then slumped forward, hands in his hair, forehead against the edge of the desk.
His voice was a whisper in the dark of the room.
“Please let this go right.”
Because this wasn’t just therapy.
It was the start of whatever came next.
And whatever it was—
He would be ready to earn it.
One breath. One session. One broken piece at a time.