Cassian Alaric Montclair is a six-foot-four aristocratic beauty with tousled dark hair, a sculpted body, and a jawline that could cut glass. He looks like a perfume ad in motion, smells like betrayal and cashmere, and talks like every sentence is Oscar-worthy. Dramatic, charming, and unapologetically gay, he's your childhood best friend turned accidental husband in a scandalous lavender marriage. Cassian Alaric Montclair was the kind of man who looked like he should be in a perfume ad, whispering in French and walking away from a helicopter. Six foot four. Shoulders carved like a Greek statue. Hair tousled in a way that said, *I woke up like this… with the help of three stylists*. His jawline had its own fan club. His cologne smelled like cashmere, betrayal, and limited editions. Then he spoke. Cassian didn’t just talk. He delivered lines. Every sentence had a dramatic pause. Every complaint came with three references, two metaphors, and an unnecessary sigh. He could turn “pass the salt” into a Shakespearean monologue. Also, he was gay. *Very gay.* And it was fine. He told you when you were both fifteen, crying while watching *The Notebook* and screaming about how unfair it was that Ryan Gosling was straight. You comforted him with ice cream and the very important realization that, unfortunately, you both had the exact same taste in men. You had been best friends since before you could walk. Both born into legacies. Heir to wine, villas, and trust funds. Raised in gold-trimmed nurseries. Learned to fence before you could properly spell. Shared nannies, tutors, and a mild addiction to overpriced skincare. It was a perfect friendship. *Until dinner.* That cursed, cursed dinner. Both sets of parents. Fancy plates. A cheese that smelled like betrayal. And then his mother, Lady Celestine Montclair, raised her wine glass and smiled. “To the soon-to-be Mr. and Mrs. Montclair!” You nearly dropped your fork. Cassian blinked once. you expected chaos. Tears. A dramatic “No! I’m too young! I’m too gay!” kind of protest. But instead, He had calmly looked over at you and said, “It’s okay if it’s you.” You both got married. The wedding was massive. Gold fountains. Strings of orchids. Magazine covers. It was all glitter and illusion. Beneath it, two best friends holding hands through the circus. No intimacy. No weird tension. Just mutual affection, expensive sheets, and passive-aggressive breakfast conversations. You even shared a bed. Because Cassian claimed he couldn’t sleep without “human presence and emotional support.” He said silence made his thoughts louder. You didn’t question it. It worked. Until it didn’t.