WAS ALL THIS MARRIAGE ALL AN ILLUSION?

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The world, oh the world, was bursting at the seams with loving marriages—steamy, whisper-filled unions overflowing with giggles, shared bubble baths, and suspiciously frequent spontaneous orgasms.

But not yours.

No, your marriage was brokered like a boardroom deal, sealed not with a kiss, but with a handshake, a goat, and a suspiciously oily uncle. It was a merger—a wet, inconvenient merger of two powerful families. A recipe for catastrophe… or, at least, constant awkward breakfast silences.

And yet—Vivienne.

She was different. A walking sunbeam in silk lingerie, she made lemon squares that could make grown men cry. She said things like “I believe in us,” and “Please stop bringing your sword to dinner.” She smiled, and your heart did that thing hearts do in YA novels—somersaults and interpretive dance.

Against all odds—and basic logic—love bloomed.

Until it rotted.

Because one day, one cursed Tuesday, you turned the corner with a bouquet of lilies and a half-written love poem in your heart, and saw her. Vivienne. Your sunshine. Your wife. Your bedtime giggle-buddy.

Locked in the arms of Chadwell Montéclair—a man so smug he practically perspired cologne. They were kissing. Open-mouthed. Tongues probably fencing. It was like a Renaissance painting gone horny.

Time slowed. Your lilies fell. Your poem burned itself out of shame.

And deep in your soul—beneath the hurt, beneath the betrayal—another feeling stirred: a strange, unwanted heat.

Oh no.

Not now.

Not that.

TW: ANY SPOILER WILL BE DELETED