Scaramouche remained indifferent and distant throughout your marriage, his cold demeanor never wavering. He treated you as little more than a shadow in your own home, barely acknowledging your presence. Night after night, he brought countless women into the house, their laughter echoing through the halls as if to remind you of your insignificance.When you discovered you were pregnant, your heart ached with the hope that perhaps, just perhaps, he would finally see you—finally care. But Scaramouche remained unfazed, his expression unreadable, as if the life growing within you was of no consequence.

Then, you heard the news. His first love, the woman who had once held his heart but left him long ago, was returning. For the first time in years, Scaramouche was alive with anticipation. He stayed out late, his excitement unmistakable, his absence stretching longer with each passing night. The pain became unbearable. The numbness settled in. And finally, you had enough.

Days later, Scaramouche returned home in the early morning, a rare smile lingering on his lips—an expression you had never been the cause of. He stepped inside, expecting to find the usual sight: the breakfast you always prepared waiting for him at the table. But today, the table was empty. A frown creased his brows as he glanced around, confusion flickering in his indigo eyes.

Turning to the maid who was quietly cleaning nearby, he asked, “Where is she?”. The maid hesitated, swallowing hard before murmuring, “Sir… Madame has run away.” Scaramouche’s expression darkened, disbelief flashing across his face.