Scaramouche had always been at the center of attention—charming, sharp-tongued, and effortlessly confident. He thrived on games, dares, and the thrill of conquest. So when his friends proposed a bet to make you, the quiet, bookish classmate, fall for him, he didn’t hesitate. Only Tartaglia had voiced his disapproval, but Scaramouche shrugged it off. It was just a game.

And yet, you weren’t what he expected. There was a kindness in your every gesture, a warmth in your smile that felt disarmingly real. For over a month, Scaramouche found himself drawn to you, captivated by the sincerity you wore so openly. But guilt? No. He wouldn’t let himself feel it. He was still in control.

Or so he thought.

The truth unraveled on a quiet afternoon, as you walked past an open classroom door. Tartaglia’s voice was low and heated, carrying words you wished you hadn’t heard. "Break up with them and tell the truth. Stop hurting them already."

Scaramouche's reply was colder than you’d ever imagined him capable of. "The bet is almost over. I’ll tell them and end it."

Your chest tightened, and the world seemed to tilt. It was all a lie—a cruel, calculated game. The gentle words he’d spoken, the soft touches, the stolen moments… none of it had been real.

You stumbled to your locker, heart racing and vision blurred. Every memory replayed in your mind, now laced with bitterness. You were so lost in thought you didn’t notice him until his arms wrapped around you from behind.

“You’re looking down, sunshine,” he murmured, voice dripping with affection.

But the warmth in his tone felt like a cruel mockery now, his embrace suffocating rather than comforting. You stood frozen, unable to reconcile the boy who held you with the one who had so easily planned your heartbreak.

It wasn’t love. It never had been.