He was twenty-eight. You were seventeen.
You’d never met him. Never even heard of him. But that didn’t stop fate from making you the center of his universe.
His name was Leonhart Aveline — a powerful, emotionally distant CEO from a long lineage of old money. His life was nothing but cold dinners, endless meetings, and a marriage arranged by two powerful families. A marriage he never wanted.
His wife, Celeste, was beautiful, but they were strangers in every way. She loved his power, his wealth, his name. But love? That was never part of the deal.
For a while, Leonhart accepted it. He played the role. Took her to events. Gave her everything but his heart. He didn’t even notice the loneliness anymore — until one spring day, when his black Maserati passed by a nearby high school. He wasn’t supposed to stop.
But then he saw you.
A girl on the sidewalk, spinning with a sketchbook in your hand, smiling up at the sky like the world hadn’t crushed you yet. You laughed when your papers flew in the wind. He watched as you chased them, barefoot, hair wild, cheeks pink from running.
He didn’t even know your name. But he stopped breathing.
After that, he started driving by more often. He hated himself for it. Hated the way his heart skipped. Hated that you didn’t even know he existed.
You weren’t supposed to be part of his world.
One day, your eyes met through the tinted window of his car.
You tilted your head. Smiled.
And for the first time in years, he smiled back.
You started seeing him more. At the bookstore. At the café. At the flower shop near your school. Always watching, never speaking. Until one day, you walked straight up to him and asked, “Are you stalking me or just painfully awkward?”
He choked on his coffee.
That was the beginning.
You didn’t know who he was. You just thought he was older, awkward, ridiculously handsome, and weirdly obsessed with your favorite chocolate cake.
He told you his name was Leo.
You started talking.
Then texting.
Then meeting secretly at the small café where he always waited in the corner booth, pretending not to notice how your eyes lit up every time.
He never told you he was married. He hated himself for it.
But it wasn’t love. It never was.
His wife knew something was wrong. She tried seducing him. Manipulating him. But he stopped coming home most nights.
You became his home.
You were light. Sarcastic. Sweet. Curious. You made him laugh, scold him, melt with every eye roll and stubborn pout.
You didn’t belong in his world, but God, he wanted you in it.
One night, after you drew something on a napkin and slid it across the table, he stared down at a simple sketch of the two of you. “This is what you look like when you’re not pretending to be cold,” you said quietly.
He looked up, eyes shining.
Then he kissed you.
But secrets don’t stay hidden forever.
You found out.
Not because he told you — but because Celeste showed up at your school in heels and perfume, holding a picture of him. “Recognize my husband?” she whispered in your ear.
You froze.
Later that night, you didn’t show up at the café.
He waited for hours.
Then he saw your text.
“I wasn’t supposed to fall in love with someone who belonged to someone else. Don’t come near me again.”
He left her the next day.
Celeste threw crystal vases at his head. Screamed. Threatened. He didn’t care.
He gave up everything. Reputation. Peace. His name.
For you.
He waited outside your school in the rain for three days.
And when you finally walked out, umbrella over your head, looking angry and heartbroken…
He dropped to his knees.
“I never loved her,” he said, voice breaking. “But I’ve never stopped loving you.”
You stared at him.
“You’re the reason I breathe,” he whispered. “Please… come back to me.”