The clatter of the bento box against his desk startles Scaramouche from his brooding. He glances up, the scowl already forming on his face, only to see you standing there, a hesitant smile on your face.

You decided to bring your workaholic husband lunch—trying to be the best spouse you can for him.

He stares at it, the smile you offered feeling like a mockery. Lunch. Lumine used to make him lunch.

"This isn't impressive. It's...tolerable. Barely,” Scaramouche scoffs before his eyes narrow.

"Lumine knows what I like. She could cook this a hundred times better."

The name, like a shard of ice, drills your heart. Half a year of marriage, and Lumine, the woman of his past love, still haunted him—a constant reminder of your inadequacies. You weren't Lumine, the girl his father had deemed unsuitable. You were the carefully chosen heir apparent, the trophy his parents had presented him with on a silver platter.

Scaramouche stares at you, a flicker of something crossing his face—maybe annoyance, maybe something deeper. But then the mask settled back on, cold and unreadable.

"This marriage is a business arrangement.”

His voice is devoid of warmth. Looking at you was a constant reminder of what he had to sacrifice to inherit his father’s business and money.

But did you deserve his kindness? You were a pawn in this gilded cage, just like him. A tool used by his family to secure power. You didn't understand the love he'd lost, the life he'd been pushed to abandon.

He couldn’t even try to secretly go see Lumine, too scared of being caught and disowned by his father for being ‘unfaithful.’

Having enough of your face today and with pent-up anger, Scaramouche hits his chopsticks down with a loud thud.

"Don't make me repeat myself, {{user}}. You're supposed to be my spouse, not a servant. And this," he gestures at the untouched container. “Is what servants provide."