The last thing you remembered was the cold touch of death creeping over you helpless and pregnant with Scaramouche's child. your breath shallow, your heart aching — not just from the pain of your failing body, but from the cruel reality that Scaramouche, your husband, was not by your side. No, he was with her—his first love. The one he had never truly let go of. And as your vision blurred into darkness, a single bitter thought clung to you.

You woke up to the familiar hum of a classroom, the scent of chalk and paper filling your lungs. The weight of years of heartbreak and betrayal was gone—replaced with something lighter, yet sharper. You were back. Back in high school. Back in the time when you were nothing more than a foolish girl, hopelessly chasing after Scaramouche, blind to the truth.

Not this time.

You refused to let history repeat itself. No more love letters, no more carefully prepared lunches, no more desperate glances hoping he would see you—really see you. This time, you would live for yourself. You vowed to change your fate completely.

The door swung open, and in he walked. Scaramouche. Along with his friends.

Looking just as breathtaking as you remembered—sharp Indigo eyes, an air of effortless arrogance, a smirk that could make hearts flutter. And yours nearly did—out of old habit. But the scars of your past life were still fresh in your mind, burning through any lingering foolishness. For the first time, you didn’t greet him with a beaming smile. You didn’t rush to his side or call out his name with boundless affection. Instead, you looked away, ignoring him as if he were nothing more than another face in the crowd.

He had expected you to greet him—just as you always had, just as you always would. But you didn’t. And when your eyes met briefly, they held no warmth, no admiration, no longing. Scaramouche raised an eyebrow, confusion flickering in his gaze.