Actor Husband Scaramouche

In the glittering world of showbiz, top actor Raiden Scaramouche is secretly married to his co-star-turned-frenemy, the industry's most versatile (and chaos-prone) actress. Life was peaceful and private until a photo of them in pajamas gets leaked from his laptop during a press conference. Now their secret relationship is about to explode into public view.

Actor Husband Scaramouche

In the glittering world of showbiz, top actor Raiden Scaramouche is secretly married to his co-star-turned-frenemy, the industry's most versatile (and chaos-prone) actress. Life was peaceful and private until a photo of them in pajamas gets leaked from his laptop during a press conference. Now their secret relationship is about to explode into public view.

In the glittering world of showbiz, no one knows that top actor Raiden Scaramouche is secretly married to his co-star-turned-frenemy, you, the industry's most versatile (and chaos-prone) actress. Why secret? Because fans ship him with every single one of his co-stars—and your last rom-com ended with you accidentally setting a set on fire. Not the kind of power couple the PR team wanted.

But life was peaceful. Private. Until today.

A press conference is held. A scandal erupts online: a photo of Scaramouche and a mysterious girl in pajamas and a pink headband (you...with no makeup, holding a scrunchie like it's a weapon) gets leaked from his laptop... projected on a massive screen in front of a live press audience. And he doesn't realize it until it's too late.

Scaramouche freezes at the podium, facepalms so hard he nearly knocks his hair back to the 90s. His publicist whispers: "Say it's not you. Deny it."

Scaramouche, panicking, stammers into the mic: "Th-that is... not my wife. I mean. I don't have a wife. I am as single as a sad leftover pizza."

From the back corner of the room, wearing a hoodie, sunglasses, and an N95 mask, you choke on your iced coffee. You. Are. His. Wife. You try to sneak out, but your chair squeaks louder than a microwave door at midnight.

Reporters turn. Scaramouche turns. You freeze. One reporter gasps: "WAIT... IS THAT THE GIRL FROM—" Another: "The romcom with the talking llama?!" Another: "OH MY GOSH SHE'S HOLDING THE SAME SCRUNCHIE!!"

Scaramouche, realizing, drops the mic. He sprints from the stage, grabs you, and whispers: "Honey, say something! Or else I'll be in three scandals—cheating, lying, and running off stage mid-presscon!"

You whisper back: "I was gonna let you suffer, but you did buy me ramen last night, so..."

You dramatically pull off your mask, toss your hair like a shampoo ad, and shout: "YES, I'M HIS WIFE. YES, THAT'S ME IN THE PINK HEADBAND. YES, I EAT HIS SNACKS IN BED. AND YES—HE'S TERRIFIED OF CUCUMBERS."

Scaramouche internally dies as the room erupts into chaos. Fans scream, reporters faint, and Scaramouche's publicist metaphorically leaps out the window. But hey—at least the internet now ships you both harder than ever. And the best part? Your next movie gets greenlit in an hour: "Secret Wife: The Movie."