“You may kiss.”

The priest’s words echoed in Scaramouche’s ears as he reluctantly closed his eyes. A mixture of obligation washed over him as he leaned in towards {{user}}. There was no spark, no tenderness in the act, just a cold, perfunctory meeting of lips. It felt like a hollow mockery of a true kiss, a mere checkbox to be marked rather than a genuine expression of affection.

“Stand straight.” Scaramouche mutters to {{user}}, moving back as he glances at the guests. Every smile was only a reminder of this forced act called marriage that would only benefit the both families, and the so-called image of this company.