Chapter 7

Sienna's POV

This was hell.

And the worst part? I had a boyfriend. A great boyfriend.

Theo was perfectly attractive, perfectly sweet, and perfectly equipped with good hands. Not as dangerously, stupidly mesmerizing as Cassian's, but good.

And yet, somehow, my dumb, treacherous body only reacted to Cassian.

This must be how men feel when they have a perfectly good wife at home, but some ridiculous, unattainable bimbo suddenly catches their attention.

Except in my case, the bimbo was Cassian's hands.

And he didn't even know.

That was the worst part.

Cassian was oblivious—living his life, rolling up his sleeves, flexing his damn fingers, pulling gloves off like a villain in a third rate drama, and driving me to madness.

It was too much.

Too much guilt, too much heat, too much confusion over the fact that this wasn't even about him—just his hands.

Theo didn't deserve this. He is a good man, more than I deserve. And to be honest, I am still waiting for that butterflies in my stomach feeling but it's not coming. Maybe I'm more to love cats than human male.

So I ended it.

I called him for the last dinner. All throughout dinner, I was saying goodbye to his hands. Terrified about telling him but I know this-this is not right. We were sitting in his car after dinner, the radio playing low in the background. I could barely look at him.

"Sienna," Theo said, frowning slightly, "is something wrong?" His handsome face is breaking my heart.

I inhaled deeply, steadying myself. "I think we should break up." My heart was thundering but I never felt more honest in my life than now.

His brows lifted. "Just like that?"

I nodded. "Yeah."

His hands flexed on the steering wheel. Normally, I would have appreciated that.

Now? I felt like garbage.

He studied me for a moment. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No."

"Did something happen?"

"No."

Theo let out a slow breath. Waiting. Watching. Probably looking for a crack in the wall I was carefully putting up.

But I was good at this.

I had spent years perfecting the art of staying composed, and right now, I needed that skill more than ever.

So I kept my expression blank.

After a long moment, he nodded.

"That's it, then?" he asked.

"That's it."

And just like that, it was over.

Theo didn't fight. Didn't argue.

Maybe he knew there was nothing to fix.

Or maybe—**deep down—**he knew I had already left the moment I started noticing another man's hands.

The breakup was easy but that did nothing to my conscience. We parted that day easily. A very peaceful break up.

Now, back to my problem.

Cassian was playing with fire.

And I was burning alive.

I knew—knew—he was messing with me. The pen flips, the sleeve rolls, the watch adjustments, the gloves. It wasn't accidental anymore. And he does that waiting for my reaction.

He was doing it on purpose.

And the worst part? I let him.

I had already broken up with Theo. It wasn't because of Cassian, not directly, but I couldn't pretend anymore. Couldn't keep up the lie that my body wasn't betraying me every time his hands entered my line of vision.

I had tried to ignore it. I had tried to fight it.

But then he touched my face.

And my entire system shut down.

It was in the office, after a meeting. Everyone had left, but I stayed behind, gathering my things. Cassian, ever the menace, lingered too.

"You're quiet today," he mused, standing too close.

"I'm busy," I muttered, focused on my laptop.

He hummed, like he didn't quite believe me.

Then, the bastard did it.

His hand—his stupidly lethal, unfairly gorgeous hand—lifted to my face.

He stroked his thumb across my cheek. Soft. Slow. Amused. His beautiful hand.

My knees buckled.

Literally.

Like some pathetic, swooning maiden from an overdramatic period drama.

Cassian, of course, caught me before I could fully collapse.

And the grin on his face?

Pure, arrogant, self-satisfied amusement.

"Whoa there, sweetheart," he said, laughing like this was the funniest thing to ever happen. "Didn't realize I had that kind of effect on you."

That was it.

That was my breaking point.

I pushed off of him, stepping back with fury in my veins. "You're doing this on purpose."

Cassian just grinned wider. "Doing what?"

"You know what."

His eyes gleamed, delighted. "Do I?"

Oh, I was going to kill him.

Forget professionalism. Forget years of friendship.

This was war.

Now that we both knew, things got so much worse for the next days.

The games, I never wanted to join, escalated. Making me want to kill him.

Cassian was a menace before, but now? Now, he was a nightmare.

Because he knew.

He knew my one fatal weakness. He knew exactly what to do to break my already fragile self-control.

The hand tricks got trickier.

He wasn't just rolling up his sleeves anymore—he was doing it slowly. Purposefully. Watching me with amused eyes. Oh, it was better then cause he would just act as if he didn't know what he is doing. Now, he just look at me with expectation and amusement. It's infuriating.. 

He wasn't just adjusting his watch—he was dragging his fingers over his wrist, flexing, rolling his knuckles like he was taunting me.

And the worst part?

I kept looking.

I told myself I wouldn't. I swore to stand my ground, be strong, ignore him.

But my resolve?

It was crumbling.

Like now.

We were at the site, standing side by side, reviewing blueprints. Completely normal. Completely professional.

Until Cassian sighed, stretching his fingers out in front of him.

I felt it happening.

The pull. The temptation.

Don't look. Don't look. Don't—

I looked.

And, of course, he caught me.

The corner of his mouth ticked up. He knew.

I snapped my head forward, pretending I was deeply invested in the blueprint, fighting off the heat crawling up my neck.

But it didn't matter.

Cassian had already won this round.

And I was losing the war.

I was getting more and more distracted by his hand. This wasn't a game anymore.

It was psychological warfare.

Cassian had always been insufferable, but now? Now, he was relentless.

He had tasted victory, and like the arrogant, smug, hand-wielding devil that he was, he refused to let me breathe.

The hand tricks became personal.

In meetings, he'd twirl a pen between his fingers, spinning it effortlessly like he had a contract with Satan.

I tried—I really tried—to focus on the presentation, but my stupid, traitorous brain zeroed in on the way his fingers moved. The way they gripped, released, caught the pen with ease.

Don't look. Don't look. Don't—

I looked.

Cassian smirked.

One morning, I walked into the office, and there he was—leaning against my desk, holding a coffee cup with both hands.

Thumbs stroking the lid. Fingers flexing as he tapped against the ceramic.

Casual. Innocent. Deadly.

I barely managed to keep my head up as I grabbed my own coffee, forcing myself to stare at the wall like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

"Morning," he said, voice full of evil amusement.

"Morning," I gritted out, not daring to glance down.

I knew. I just knew. He was waiting for it.

And I refused to give him the satisfaction.

But the worst?

The absolute worst?

He started touching me.

Not inappropriately—no, that would have been easier to fight. And HR is just one call away.

This was subtle. Sinister. Designed to ruin me.

A guiding hand on the small of my back as we walked through a crowded corridor.

A casual brush of his knuckles against mine when we reached for the same document.

A slow, deliberate squeeze on my shoulder after a long meeting, muttering, "Good work, sweetheart," before walking away.

Every time, my brain went blank. My resolve weakened. My body betrayed me.

I was burning alive, and Cassian?

Cassian was enjoying every second of it.