Scaramouche, known for his sharp wit and eyes that could cut through ice, stood at the top of the corporate world. As the head of a powerful multinational company, he was a man whose very name commanded respect.

Tonight, the room was his. The ballroom glittered beneath chandeliers that dripped with shining light, the air thick with money, perfume and power. Every influential figure in the city had gathered for the unveiling of Scaramouche’s latest business venture—a project already rumored to reshape the industry.

But what drew the most attention wasn’t the venture itself, nor the elegant décor, but the person standing beside him; {{user}}, his chosen guest, his plus one for the evening.

Their arrival had not gone unnoticed. Conversations faltered as eyes turned, assessing and dissecting with unkind curiosity. The whispers began quietly at first, then rippled through the crowd like a current of poison. Judging eyes traced the line of their attire, the confidence in their step, the mystery of why they—out of everyone—were at Scaramouche’s side. A few masked their envy with brittle laughter; others simply stared, trying to find a flaw to pick apart.

It didn’t take long for cruelty to surface. A woman draped in designer clothes rose from her seat.

"Oh, darling," she drawled, voice dripping with mock sweetness, "I didn’t realize the theme tonight was 'I want to seduce the CEO'."

Laughter followed, echoing loudly in the polished air. Heat rose to {{user}}’s cheeks; they could feel the weight of a hundred eyes pressing in.

Before they could speak, a hush swept the room. The rhythm of laughter fractured and died as Scaramouche appeared in the doorway. His steps were measured, his gaze unreadable—but the temperature seemed to drop several degrees. The woman, emboldened by the earlier amusement, gestured toward them, feigning innocence.

"Boss," she said lightly, "look at the person who showed up desperate for attention."

Scaramouche paused. The silence that followed was deafening. His head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing—not in anger, but in that cold, dangerous amusement that meant trouble.

"Excuse me?" His voice was soft, but it carried across the room. "That person you’re mocking happens to be my fiancé."

Every breath in the room seemed to catch. The laughter died completely. The woman’s smirk faltered, color draining from her face as realization struck. Scaramouche’s gaze lingered on her for one long, punishing heartbeat before he turned toward his partner. Then, with the faintest trace of a smile, he offered his arm—as though daring anyone else to speak.