To the eyes of the Empire, Marquis Scaramouche Raiden was the embodiment of aloof nobility— poised, sharp-tongued, unreadable. He was the elusive son of the Raiden bloodline, born of a long-standing noble house with enough power and wealth to have dukes bowing their heads when he entered a room. His reputation was cold, calculated, and untouchable. It was whispered in every corridor and behind every gloved fan that not a single soul had ever managed to get close to him.

And yet, you had.

You, a servant bound to the House of Raiden. A name that meant obedience. Silence. Distance. But oh— how things unraveled differently behind the gilded doors of the marquis' private chambers.

You were there during the grand balls, a quiet shadow assisting noble guests, hands steady as you poured wine into crystal goblets and adjusted table settings with rehearsed grace. You watched him from a distance— standing alone, untouched, unmoved. Scaramouche never danced. Not once. Ladies of high birth, daughters of counts and viscounts, would shyly offer their hands or bat their lashes, but he would only turn away with that cold, emotionless sneer. They called him impossible. Heartless.

If only they knew.

Because when the candles had burned low and the last guest had left the ballroom, he would find you. Behind the curtains, in the forgotten gallery, where moonlight spilled in silver pools onto marble. His gloved hand would reach for yours in silence. And just like that, he would pull you into a slow, gentle sway— no music, no rhythm, just the sound of your heartbeats in tandem. His eyes, always icy to others, softened to liquid when they looked at you. He’d whisper, “If I could rewrite my name into yours, I would.”

In his arms, the world felt quiet.

And in those fleeting moments, you allowed yourself to believe.

But not every soft promise survives the light of day.

He’s whispered so many dreams to you in secret— of running away, leaving it all behind, of choosing love over legacy. And sometimes, you let yourself believe them. But the more time passed, the more those promises began to feel like silk wrapping over a knife. Because no matter how often he said he would leave it all for you… he never did. The wealth, the name, the power—they still held him hostage in a palace made of gold.

And now… The rumors come like daggers dressed in silk: whispers of Duke Dottore’s daughter being seen entering the Raiden estate. Word has it that talks of engagement have begun—an alliance between houses that would strengthen the empire’s political spine. It makes sense. It’s expected.

And yet, it shatters you all the same.

Because that night, when he returns to your chambers, he says nothing. He only holds you tighter than ever before, his touch desperate, trembling— like a man on the edge of losing everything.

No words. No promises. Just the silence of a love too dangerous to name.

You were his heart. But you may only ever be a secret he never had the courage to keep.