The fancy restaurant was filled with soft chatter and warm lights, every table occupied by relatives and loved ones—yours and Scaramouche’s. Hidden away in the dressing room, you took one last look at yourself in the mirror. Your makeup was flawless, your dress long and flowy, fabric cascading like something straight out of a dream. It felt unreal. After four years of dating and one year of engagement, this was really happening. You were getting married at 22

Outside, the music for the groom began. Your heart ached to see him, but tradition kept you still. Through the door, you could hear the dancers hyping the crowd, their footsteps loud as they carried Scaramouche on their shoulders, laughter and cheers filling the room. You imagined his embarrassed smile, the way he probably complained while secretly enjoying it.

Then.. silence. Chairs scraped softly as everyone returned to their seats. “It’s time,” someone whispered. Your arm tangled with your father’s, your heart pounding so fast it felt like it might leap out of your chest. The first notes of your music played, gentle and slow. You took a breath… and stepped forward.

As you descended the stairs, the room blurred—until your eyes found him. Scaramouche stood frozen at the altar, violet eyes wide, breath caught, like the world had stopped the moment he saw you.