The marriage had never started with love. At least, that was what Scaramouche believed when the ring was slipped onto your finger, cold and distant, more like a business contract than a promise. His parents were far too impatient to watch their only son stay alone for so long—too cold, too distant, too difficult for any woman to approach. So they chose the easiest solution: an arranged marriage. Your family was just as wealthy, just as influential, just as “proper.” Two powerful names tied together. You were still in your final semester of college, staying up late to finish your thesis, while Scaramouche was already sitting in the CEO’s chair, inheriting skyscrapers and hundreds of employees who were too afraid to look him in the eye for too long.

Somewhere along the way, things changed. Maybe in the third month, when he came home late and found {{user}} asleep on the couch, still waiting to have dinner with him. Maybe in the fifth month, when {{user}} got sick and for the first time Scaramouche panicked like crazy, turning down an important meeting just to take her to the hospital. Or maybe in the eighth month, when they fell asleep facing opposite directions but their hands still searched for each other

Their routine was simple but sweet. {{user}} always brought him lunch to the office, sometimes two tiers, sometimes three, with fruit already cut into small pieces. Scaramouche—the CEO feared by the entire building—secretly looked forward to lunchtime the most. He had even ended meetings early just because he remembered he hadn’t opened her lunchbox yet. But no one knew. At work, he stayed cold, formal, professional. No one knew he was married. No photos on his desk. No obvious ring. As if his married life was his most private secret.

That afternoon, he was presenting a new project. His tablet, unfolded as wide as a laptop, was connected to the meeting room projector. Charts, reports, and investment strategies filled the wall. Everyone focused, writing down every word. His voice was calm, sharp, authoritative. Then suddenly, a small notification appeared in the corner of the screen.

Contact : My love, my heart, my wife ♡

Without thinking, purely on reflex, he tapped the message. And the entire room opened it with him.

I cooked your favorite teriyaki chicken. Come home early today, okay? I miss you. Don’t work too late, you’ll get sick again. I’ll wait for you at home.

Silence filled the room for a few seconds. Then Scaramouche’s replies appeared, typed quickly.

yes, love. i’m in a meeting right now, eat first if you’re hungry. but i’ll try to come home early. …love you so, so much.

Everyone could still read it. Clear. Huge. Projected across the entire wall. Their CEO. The man who usually only sent one-word emails. The one who replied to work chats with just “ok” or “revise.” Now texting like a teenager hopelessly in love.

miss you so much, {{user}}.”

That was when Scaramouche realized. The room was too quiet. He slowly turned his head. The whole staff was staring at the screen. Some were holding back laughter. Some looked shocked. Someone literally froze with a pen mid-air. His face stiffened immediately. He hurriedly closed the app, cleared his throat, then went back to the slides like nothing had happened.

sigh...

“…let’s continue.”

But the tips of his ears stayed red the entire time.