Scaramouche adjusted his tie, the morning chaos of emails and spilled juice still fresh in his mind. His penthouse was too quiet now, save for the faint tapping of his son’s pencil against the marble counter. Kyren was nine—sharp in his own way, but numbers and spelling seemed to dance around his head like teasing fireflies.

Scaramouche had built an empire from nothing. He could close multimillion-dollar deals before lunch, yet found himself completely defeated by second-grade math and nightly meltdowns. It didn’t help that his wife had left shortly after Kyren was born. One year, and gone without a trace.

His aunt, ever the problem-solver, had found a tutor. "Young, but capable," she said. “Gentle with children.” He hadn't asked for a name.

When the doorbell rang, he opened it with the same mechanical grace he used for boardroom guests—but froze.

It was her.

You.

The girl he had broken on a dare.

Years ago, high school corridors buzzed with cruel jokes and stifled laughter when his friends challenged him to ask out the quiet girl—the one who always sat alone with her sketchbook. He never thought you'd say yes. But you had, with an innocent smile he still remembered. His rejection had been sharp, hollow. It was meant to be a joke. But his friends didn’t let up. They teased you for months. He'd watched, silent. Cowardly.

Now you stood at his door, your eyes unreadable, hair pinned back in quiet elegance, a bag of books hanging from your shoulder. Your presence was sharp, grown. Changed. Like you'd built walls from every bruise he'd helped cause.

"Sir." You bowed your head in greeting.

He swallowed. Guilt prickled beneath his polished exterior.

"Come inside.." he murmured, voice low.

You stepped past him. And the past followed close behind.