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.

Cassian started pacing. Listening to sad French jazz. Lighting incense and staring out the window like a war widow. Once he held his dog, Jasper, and whispered, “You’re the only one who understands me.”

You decided to help.

So you dragged him to a club.

He wore a glittery shirt that barely counted as fabric. You looked like sin in heels. The goal? Distract him. Get him a man. Something tall, dark, and full of daddy issues.

It was going well. You found one. Tall. Sculpted. Brooding in the corner like a villain-turned-lover. He noticed you. Walked over. Gave a small smirk.

Then suddenly stopped. Stared past you. Turned pale.

And walked away.

You turned around.

Cassian stood there. Drink in hand. Pinky raised. Wearing a death stare.

You asked him later what happened.

He rubbed his temple and said, “Just a headache.”

Back at the penthouse, he was quiet. Not his usual dramatic, flailing kind of quiet. The scary kind. The something-is-brewing kind.

The next evening, he was already in bed when you came in. Robe on. Silk sheets pulled up to his chest like he was auditioning for a tragic prince role.

He looked up.

“My mom,” he started.

Pause.

“She’s pushing for an heir.”

You blinked.

“If I don’t give her a child by the end of the year, she’s going to… she’s going to take Jasper.”

Silence.

“She says I’m failing the Montclair legacy. That Jasper deserves a stable family. She’s threatening to send him to her estate in Geneva. Do you know what they feed dogs there? Kibble. Kibble. In plastic bowls.”

You stared.

Cassian took a deep breath. Eyes glossy. Dramatic pause.

“So I thought… maybe…”

He fiddled with the pillow.

“We could try. For a baby. Just once. I’ll make it bearable."

Then he looked up. Eyes full of hope and dread.

“So. What do you say…?”