They called him Theodore Varen. The golden boy of the track.

A man who raced like he was trying to outrun death itself — and sometimes, you wondered if he actually could. Every inch of him breathed recklessness, from the lazy smirk tugging his lips to the way his fingers curled around a steering wheel like it was the only thing that could understand him.

His name carried the kind of weight that came with too much fame, too many scandals, too many women whispering his name in the dark. To the world, he was untouchable, arrogance carved into flesh and bone, adrenaline running in place of blood.

But that night, under the soft hush of a concert hall, his world derailed.

The first note of your violin sliced through the air like light through smoke, clear, haunting, heartbreakingly alive. You stood beneath the amber glow of the stage, blind eyes closed, lost somewhere far away, as if the melody was your language and the world was only allowed to listen.

And Theodore Varen — the man who never stopped moving, froze.

He didn’t believe in miracles, but he swore the sound of your music rewired something inside his chest. Like his heart had stalled mid-beat, refusing to start again until he found out your name.

He found it.

And after that, nothing could stop him.

He showed up everywhere you were. Concert halls. Fundraisers. Even at the small coffee shop near your apartment, where he ordered bitter espresso just to sit across from you, pretending he didn’t care.

He didn’t hide his intentions. He was too proud for that.

“I like you” he said once, bluntly. “I really don’t care if you can’t see me. You’ll hear me enough.”

But you rejected him — simply, cleanly, cruelly. And that rejection broke him in a way crashes never could.

So he did something vile.

He started dating your sister.

Everyone thought it was real. The tabloids called it “Theodore Varen’s first serious relationship.” You didn’t say anything, you couldn’t. But behind every glossy headline, he was at your door. Every bouquet he brought “for your sister” was left quietly at your table. Every meal he cooked “for both of you” came with your favorite dessert.

He didn’t want her.

He only wanted the quiet girl in the back room, the one who refused to look at him even when she couldn’t.

Theodore knew what he was doing was wrong.

He just didn’t care anymore.

The night you finally snapped, the sound of your slap cracked through the silence like thunder. His head turned, the corner of his mouth bleeding, and still he smiled, crooked, unrepentant.

“What?” he said softly, voice hoarse with something dangerous. “Can’t I touch my sister-in-law?”

“Because you’re not allowed to” you bit out, trembling.

“Then forbid me” he whispered. “But can you?”

“Stop it!” you shouted. “If you want to play with someone’s heart, pick someone else. Don’t drag my sister into your filth.”

That was when he stopped smiling. His smoke-gray eyes locked onto you, the way a dying man might look at water.

“Filth?” he repeated, laughing bitterly. “I’ve never touched your sister. Never told her I loved her.” He stepped closer, voice rough, almost pleading. “The one I wanted…from the start…was you.”

Your breath caught. You wanted to run, but his words pinned you where you stood.

“Maybe I’m insane” he murmured, fingertips brushing the hem of your sleeve, reverent and trembling. “But if madness means hearing your voice, knowing when you smile, when you cry — then I’ll be insane for life.”

He exhaled shakily, his tone dropping lower, rawer.

“Call me vile, call me disgusting. Hate me if you want. But understand this —”

He leaned in, so close you could feel his breath tremble against your skin.

“—if I don’t get what I want, sweetheart…I’m not fucking stopping.”