The Fighter's Obsession

THEA LYSANDER

“I’m going to have his babies.”

I turned.

One brow lifted—not out of surprise, but disbelief. Olivia, the new girl, was squished between two assistants like they were sorority sisters instead of legal interns. All three were locked onto her phone like it was live footage from the heavens.

The sound of a roaring crowd blasted from the tiny speaker. Then, smack. The thud of a body hitting the mat.

Screams followed.

“He won!” Olivia shrieked, throwing her arms up like she’d landed the knockout punch herself.

“Those abs should be illegal,” one of the others moaned. “Like, why isn’t that man in prison for murdering me with that body?”

Professionalism? Dead.

It was midday. Case files untouched. Phones buzzing. Deadlines ignored.

I stepped forward. None of them noticed. So I reached down and snatched the phone right out of Olivia’s manicured hands.

She gasped and spun around, ready to spit fire—until she saw me.

Then? Silence.

Olivia’s perfectly polished nails quivered as she took in my expression. One assistant blinked so hard her eyelids fluttered, and the other swallowed so loud I heard it. Silence snapped into place.

“Is this what we’re doing now?” I said coldly. “Watching half-naked men during billable hours?”

No one spoke.

I looked at the screen.

And everything inside me froze.

It wasn’t shock. It wasn’t heartbreak. It was that dangerous kind of stillness when your brain catches up, but your heart’s too stunned to move.

Cassian Draven.

Standing in the center of the cage like a god made of blood and violence. Arms raised. Knuckles split. Sweat trickling down the curve of his abs like liquid sin, glinting under the spotlight. He roared into the chaos, and the crowd roared back—drunk on his rage, his beauty, his madness.

My ex.

The man who once made me forget every rule I ever lived by.

The one I never should’ve touched, but couldn’t stop touching.

And the one who left without a word.

My jaw tightened. I handed the phone back to Olivia without a word. Just a stare sharp enough to peel skin.

“Back to work,” I snapped.

The others scrambled like rats from a sinking ship.

Olivia? She stayed frozen.

“There’s a mountain of case files by the west desk,” I said. “I want each one read, summarized, and in a report by noon tomorrow.”

Her mouth parted slightly as she glanced at the pile. Easily enough to break a lesser intern. Good.

“Also,” I added as I turned to leave, “I want coffee. Hot. No sugar. And don’t mess it up.”

I walked into my office, shut the door, and breathed.

Work waited. It always did. And I had no intention of falling apart over a man who once looked me in the eye and chose someone else.

Because if I let myself remember the way he made me burn—only to call me “too cold,” “too intense,” “too much”—I might actually scream.

Still, no matter how hard I tried to focus, the words on my screen refused to stick. They blurred and warped until I found myself opening the one thing I swore I wouldn’t.

A gossip site.

And there it was.

“MMA Champion Cassian Draven arrives at his victory party with girlfriend, Laura Ozier.”

Girlfriend.

Funny.

I thought I was the girlfriend. Or close to it.

But Cassian never said the words. Never asked.

It started as a one-night mistake. Became three months of fire—breathless, consuming, chaotic.

I thought it meant something.

Apparently, it didn’t.

There was no fight. No explanation. Just silence. Emptiness. Absence.

He stopped coming over.

Stopped calling.

Stopped treating my bed like the only place he could breathe.

And Laura?

She was the opposite of me. Warm brown eyes. Soft curls. Sweet. Soft. The kind of woman who’d make you soup and ask about your mother.

The kind of woman a man keeps.

Not like me.

I was the heat that made him sweat.

Not the warmth that made him stay.

*_*

Work was supposed to help.

It usually did.

Facts. Logic. Structure. All the clean lines and sharp edges that made sense in a world where nothing else did.

So I buried myself in it—highlighting witness statements, dissecting legal precedents, diving headfirst into a land dispute so petty it almost felt laughable. Almost.

But then, there it was again.

A memory. The ghost of a man who used to kiss me like the world was ending and lie like he believed in forever.

His name cracked through my focus like a whip. I clenched my jaw and forced my eyes back to the page.

I flipped to the first page. No proof of service.

A frown tugged at my brow as I scanned the next sheet—three surveys dated months apart, all claiming the same back lawn.

My pen hovered. Then I uncapped it, ready to carve this mess to pieces.

Something I could fix with logic. So I tore into it. Marked every inconsistency. Highlighted every lie. Shaped a counterattack in red ink. Not for him. For me.

Because what if I let it in? The ache. The questions. The way he left without a goodbye. Would I unravel? Would I scream? Would I finally admit that I never stopped waiting for a door that never opened again?

No. Not now. Not ever. I buried that version of me six months ago, right beside every voicemail I never sent.

Olivia entered, carefully holding the cup of coffee I’d asked for. She looked like a kid delivering a peace offering to a sleeping dragon.

“Where do you want it?” she asked, hopeful.

“By the desk,” I said, not looking up.

She obeyed.

“I just wanted to say I’m really sorry… for earlier,” she added, voice small. “It won’t happen again.”

I finally glanced at her. She meant it.

“It’s okay,” I said flatly. “Just get to the files I gave you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She turned to leave, just as the door creaked open again.

Michael stepped in, holding a thick folder. His expression was neutral.

“Morning,” he said, nodding at Olivia before turning to me. “This just came in. Higher-ups flagged it as urgent. Said it’s for your eyes only.”

He placed it on my desk and left without another word.

I didn’t move at first.

Then I reached for the file.

Flipped it open.

And the world shifted.

Cassian Draven.

The name hit like a punch to the ribs. It forced the air out of my lungs. Suddenly the room felt too small. My skin too tight. Like my past had found a way to dig its claws in again just when I thought I’d finally outrun it.

His name sat at the top like a curse. Bold. Black ink.

My fingers stilled, then turned the page.

And there he was.

A mugshot. Not posed. Just raw.

Even in handcuffs, that little silver dragon hung at his throat—my birthday gift. I’d carved ‘Breathe’ into the back when he’d panicked before a fight. Now it was a private talisman that meant nothing to anyone else.

My focus shifted to his wild eyes, clenched jaw and then the cut on his lip that had barely visible dried blood.

He looked like a man cornered. Dangerous. Broken. Familiar.

Like the version of him I almost loved before he vanished into silence and smoke.

The charge: assault. Filed by Austin Fletcher.

My eyes scanned the document, faster now. Statements. Witnesses. Court dates.

Then:

Defense Attorney: Thea Lysander.

My name.

On his case.

He’d chosen me.

Out of every bloodthirsty, overpriced, reputation-polishing lawyer in the city… he’d chosen me.

I stared at the words until they blurred.

Cassian Draven.

And me.

Again.

He picked me. After all this time. After everything. Maybe he thought I’d save him. Maybe he forgot that I don’t rescue the men who ruin me—I bury them.