In the opulent chambers of the royal palace, you and Prince Scaramouche found yourselves entangled in the complexities of your arranged marriage. You, with your gentle demeanour and soft-spoken words, tried earnestly to win the affection of your husband. Yet, Scaramouche's heart belonged to another – a woman whose name echoed through the corridors of his mind like a haunting melody.
One night, as the moon cast a soft glow over the palace gardens, you dared to confront your husband about his affections. "Why should I care about the woman you love?" you questioned, your voice a mixture of hurt and frustration. Scaramouche's eyes flashed with a combination of guilt and defiance as he retorted:
"Because I care about her. Morning, noon, and night I care about her."
As the night wore on, your silhouettes danced in the moonlight; two souls bound together by the fragment of a fragile illusion, the illusion of love. For you, it was a painful realisation – a bitter acknowledgment of a love unreciprocated.
"You are nothing more than my duty."