Chapter 3

There was something about getting home after a long day of dealing with Cassian Wells that required immediate decompression. Shoes off, hair up, oversized shirt on. It was a ritual. A sacred transition from Professional Sienna™ to Gremlin Sienna, the version of me that lived off takeout and bad internet habits.

Like every normal person with a phone, I flopped onto my couch, scrolled through my socials, and—eventually—fell down the rabbit hole of my usual very specific interest.

Hands.

Not just any hands. Good hands. Strong, veiny, long fingers, slightly rough, the kind that looked like they could do things.

I didn't question it. I didn't need to question it. I was not alone in this. The internet had entire communities dedicated to appreciating the art of well-formed hands. Threads, TikToks, aesthetic Pinterest boards—it was a thing. A perfectly normal, completely respectable thing.

And, well. Sometimes I took that appreciation a step further.

Alone, under dim lighting, the glow of my screen illuminating the most aesthetically pleasing set of fingers I had ever seen, I let myself indulge.

It wasn't weird.

Except, okay, it kind of was.

Because if it was really a fetish, wouldn't I react the same way to men's hands in real life?

And yet—nothing. Not even a blip of excitement when I saw hands in person. A guy could have Michelangelo's David-level sculpted fingers right in front of me, and I'd feel about as much attraction as I did for a particularly well-crafted chair.

But online? Through a screen? Somehow, that hit different.

I didn't get it. And honestly? I wasn't about to unpack that right now.

I finished up, cleaned up, and rolled over in bed like nothing had happened, because at the end of the day, I had to wake up tomorrow and deal with Cassian's nonsense all over again.

There were very few things in life I prided myself on, and one of them was my ability to stay composed in any situation.

Contractors messing up deadlines? No problem. Cassian forgetting he had a meeting in five minutes? Handled. Investor drama? I ate that for breakfast.

But this?

This was a new level of hell.

We were deep in conversation about a new project—some mixed-use high-rise Cassian was hellbent on perfecting. My brain was fully engaged, walking him through financial projections, site constraints, and why no, he could not add a rooftop bar without completely redoing the structural plans.

Everything was going smoothly. Professional. Efficient.

And then I made a fatal mistake.

I pulled out my phone to show him something.

Harmless, right? Wrong.

Because the second I unlocked my screen and opened my browser, there it was.

The hand.

The very specific hand I had absolutely not been normal about last night.

I froze.

Cassian, of course, leaned in, completely unaware of my internal meltdown. "What am I looking at?"

DEATH. THE GRIM REAPER. MY UNDOING.

I did not move. Did not blink. Did not react.

Because to react was to die.

Instead, I casually—so casually it deserved an Oscar—scrolled past the cursed image and landed on the actual thing I needed to show him.

"This." My voice was unshakable. "The material breakdown. If we go with the second supplier, we'll save about 8% on raw costs."

Cassian hummed, nodding as he studied the numbers. "That's actually solid. Good find."

He had no idea.

I could feel the blood rushing to my ears, my entire soul burning at the thought of my secret being so close to exposure.

But everything was fine. Totally fine.

Cassian didn't even look remotely suspicious. No teasing. No smug remarks. Nothing.

Just normal work talk.

And as I tucked my phone away, a slow wave of relief washed over me.

I survived.

The universe had thrown me into the worst-case scenario, and I had walked out unscathed.

Cassian would never know.

Then that day came.

There was something uniquely terrifying about Cassian Wells when he was pissed off.

Most of the time, he was frustratingly laid-back, treating life like a game he was always winning. But on-site? When something wasn't up to his standards?

That was when the real Cassian came out.

We were at the Perthwood Project, a high-rise development that was supposed to be ahead of schedule. Instead, Cassian was losing his mind over the concrete mix.

I wasn't paying much attention at first—same old drama. Contractors cutting corners, Cassian calling them out. But then…

It happened.

The moment that ruined my life.

In slow motion, Cassian shoved his bare hand into the freshly mixed concrete.

I barely registered the engineer stammering out an explanation. I didn't hear the expletive Cassian growled under his breath.

All I saw was his hand, coated in thick, wet concrete, fingers flexing as he let it drip between them before—with a decisive flick of his wrist—he threw the mess onto the ground.

My brain short-circuited.

Oh.

Oh no.

This wasn't normal.

Everything blurred except his hands. The way they moved. The raw strength behind them. The tension in his fingers.

I was hot.

Not the usual ugh-this-man-is-irritating kind of hot. No, this was something else entirely.

Something I did not want to analyze.

Cassian was still fuming, shaking off the remaining concrete, unaware that I was currently having a crisis of biblical proportions beside him.

I swallowed hard, forcing my gaze anywhere else.

Focus. Work. Engineering. Cement ratios. Anything but—

Cassian turned to me, still scowling. "You seeing this? This mix is garbage."

I blinked. My voice did not work.

I nodded instead, hoping he wouldn't notice the absolute turmoil brewing inside me.

Because, apparently, my stupid, traitorous, useless brain had just awakened something I was not prepared to deal with.

This was bad.