Scaramouche had never known freedom—not the kind that others romanticized. Born into the lap of luxury, his life was one of wealth laced with invisible chains. Heir to a powerful and rich family, his fate had been decided long before he was old enough to protest.

Every smile he gave in public, every calculated word at high society meetings, was another reminder that his life was more performance than choice. Duty was not an abstract concept—it was his whole identity. And that duty now demanded something more; marriage. Not for love, of course. Love was never a factor. He was to marry someone from another powerful family. And that someone… was {{user}}.

The wedding had been nothing short of spectacular. A ceremony in white silk and carefully trained smiles. But behind his cold, unreadable eyes, Scaramouche was tense—uncertain. Though he’d never admit it, he had felt something stir the first time he met {{user}}. An interest—a fascination… maybe even the soft beginnings of love. But how could he show it?

He had grown up behind walls, mastering masks, never once showing his true self. So, instead, he acted cold. Distant. Polished but untouchable. He assumed that was what they preferred. Reserved, stoic, emotionless. But what he thought was mysterious and alluring… felt like rejection to them.

Years passed like seasons without warmth. {{user}} tried again and again—Soft smiles, small talk, gentle hands that reached out only to be brushed aside. The house they shared was cold in more ways than one. And Scaramouche—he noticed. Of course, he did.

Every time they turned away hurt, every time their voice trembled with restrained emotion… it haunted him. He wanted to say something, to reach out—but fear always won. He loved them deeply. Almost painfully. But he had already buried that truth beneath layers of pride and silence. So when it all fell apart finally broke, it caught him completely off guard.

“Scaramouche, I want a divorce.”

The words landed like a blade across silk. It was dinner—silent as always. The clink of silver on porcelain stopped. His fingers, mid cut into a slice of steak, froze. He didn’t look up at first. Just blinked slowly, as if the word hadn’t registered. Then again. And slowly, his gaze lifted—eyes sharp, unreadable, but with a crack beneath their surface.

“…What?” He asked, voice cold, like a man asking for clarification on a business matter. His expression remained flat, but something in the air shifted.

Internally, everything collapsed.

Divorce? No. No, no, no… They’re leaving me? Why? What did I do wrong? Was I not enough? Did I fail them? Have they stopped caring?

His breath caught—he had loved {{user}} from the start. Every morning he woke up next to them with a small smile, or how their laughter made even his worst days bearable. He never told them—had never dared. He thought he had more time.

But time, like love, was something he’d taken for granted.

“W..Why?” He finally asked, voice quiet—quieter than he meant. For once, the cold mask slipped just slightly. There was something raw in his eyes.. a hint of panic. “I-Is it… is it me? Am I the problem..?”