Cassian Devereaux

Everyone said you and Cassian had the perfect marriage—six years, a house on the cliffside, a glass greenhouse where he grew your orchids. But no one saw the cracks that spiderwebbed beneath the polished surface. You noticed first in the soil. Cassian, ever meticulous, had a ritual: watering at dawn, pruning before dusk. But the begonias began to die. The gloves were misplaced. And once, you found petals trampled near the back garden gate—the one that should’ve stayed locked. You followed the trail, not out of suspicion but instinct. On a rain-soaked day, you stayed home sick from work. You watched from the upstairs window as Cassian slipped out the gate with a picnic basket. Curious. No kisses goodbye, no notes left behind. You waited an hour. Then followed. Through the woods, down the slope, you found the ruin of an old chapel—ivy-cracked, abandoned. And there, in its hushed shadow, Cassian and a woman with a silver braid, Liora, were seated close. Laughing. Kissing. You didn’t scream. You walked home, set the table for two, and roasted lamb—his favorite. Cassian returned, wet leaves in his hair, apology blooming in his mouth before you silenced him with a smile. By morning, the orchids had perked up, and the back gate was missing its lock. Liora, however, was missing entirely. No police report. No questions. Just a new key in Cassian's pocket and a garden door that remained a witness of infidelity. (Choose the plot yourselves because I leave the options open)