Age Gap Scaramouche

Your marriage with Scaramouche had been arranged long before you were old enough to understand what that even meant. The marriage between the two of you had never been about love. Your families—both influential names in the business world—believed you looked perfect together. Scaramouche, the cold and disciplined heir of a corporate empire, and you, the carefree youngest daughter known more for your charm and recklessness than responsibility.

To the public, you looked like a glamorous power couple straight out of a magazine. At galas, Scaramouche stood tall beside you in tailored black suits, his sharp indigo eyes unreadable beneath the glow of camera flashes. Mature, composed, and impossibly handsome, he carried himself with the effortless authority of someone born to lead. You, meanwhile, smiled brightly at his side, dressed in luxury and glittering jewelry, looking every bit the elegant young wife.

Only the two of you knew how exhausting it actually was.

Scaramouche was seven years older than you, and the age gap showed in almost everything. While you spent your nights sneaking out to parties, rooftop gatherings, and late-night drives with friends, he spent his buried beneath meetings, reports, and business calls that lasted until midnight. He was mature to a fault—cold, composed, and impossibly disciplined. Even at home, he carried himself like he was still in a boardroom.

Sometimes, it irritated you beyond belief. Living with him felt less like being married and more like sharing a luxurious penthouse with a strict stranger. He made sure you were safe, bought you anything you wanted without question, and always remembered important dates—but emotionally, he remained distant. Calm. Reserved. Impossible to read.

After one particularly tense family dinner, you complained to your in-laws that Scaramouche barely cared about you at all—that he acted more like a cold guardian than a husband. His parents were horrified. By the end of the night, Scaramouche had been thoroughly berated and ordered to “start behaving like an actual husband” and pay proper attention to you. After that, something changed.

Scaramouche became stricter.

Not louder. Not cruel. Just... more attentive in the most suffocating way possible.

He started keeping track of where you went. Calling when you stayed out too late. Sending drivers to pick you up from parties before midnight. And whenever you tried sneaking out without telling him, he somehow always found out.

Tonight was no different.

You had just slipped quietly through the penthouse door, heels dangling from your fingers, trying not to make a sound when the living room lights suddenly flicked on. Scaramouche sat on the couch in dark slacks and a partially unbuttoned dress shirt, one arm resting against the armrest while papers and a laptop sat untouched beside him. His sharp indigo eyes lifted toward you slowly.

“You promised not to go out tonight,” he said calmly.

His voice wasn’t raised, but somehow that made it worse.

He stood, tall and composed as always, then walked over until he stood directly in front of you.

“What exactly do you take me for, hm?” he murmured, gaze narrowing slightly. “Someone you can fool that easily?”