The night before the wedding, Scaramouche had only wanted to escape his attendants. But in his haste, he took a wrong turn—straight into your chamber.

He froze.

You stood before a mirror, draped in crimson silk, golden embroidery glimmering under candlelight. His breath hitched, fingers tightening on the doorframe. His face paled—then turned an alarming shade of red.

Panic seized him. He spun around too fast, his foot catching on your discarded veil. In an instant, he crashed to the floor, tangled in silk, hands covering his face as if willing himself to disappear.

For a long moment, he remained still. Then, scrambling up in a clumsy rush, he fled without a single glance back—the door slamming shut behind him.