Scaramouche was never shy when it came to spending on her. Jewelry, books she mentioned in passing, imported sweets—nothing was ever too much. He claimed it was natural to give to someone you loved. And {{user}}? She had never known affection like this before. Every gift, every gentle glance, made her feel like she mattered. Like she was finally someone's first choice.

But that warmth dulled one afternoon, when she passed by a room in Scaramouche's apartment and heard muffled voices. His friends were laughing, the kind of careless laughter that dug under her skin.

"You really spoil her, don't you?" one said. "I'm sure she's a gold digger."

The words struck like a slap. She froze, heart twisting. Scaramouche's response was too quiet to catch, and the silence that followed felt worse than if he’d agreed.

From that day on, guilt settled in her chest like a stone. Every wrapped box he held out, every bouquet, made her flinch internally. She started declining, her tone light but her eyes distant. When she accepted anything, it was with hesitation, as though it cost her something.

Scaramouche noticed, of course. How her smile faltered, how she no longer reached for his hand when he led her to shops. But when he presented her with a small, carefully wrapped gift one rainy evening and said, “I got you something,” her expression didn’t light up. It dimmed.