Cinematic glimpses into a world of obsession, secrets, and dangerous love.

"He didn't touch her. He didn't need to. The way he looked at her did everything a touch could do — and more."

"She had the clipboard. She had the protocol. She had recapped her pen four times and they hadn't even started."

"Twelve pages. Her name already there. He hadn't even asked."

"She didn't cry. She didn't plead. She just looked at him — and that was the thing that finally broke him."

"He gave her the silence she asked for. What he didn't give her was the distance."
Some stories don't begin with love. They begin with a wound.
And today, I released something born from that wound — the first lyric video of the Fractured Vows Saga, a universe where obsession is louder than devotion, silence is sharper than truth, and love is the most dangerous game of all.
This song didn't come from a melody. It came from Jimmy Donovan.
The Golden Boy of the league. The man who thrives on logic, precision, and control. The man who can command a stadium but loses his breath in front of one girl.
Sofie Kaza.
She is the friction he can't solve. The silence he can't outrun. The one person who sees the hollow ache beneath his swagger — and refuses to bow to it.
And somewhere between their first collision and the night he cannot remember, something inside him fractures. Something inside her does too. That fracture is where this song was born.
When I wrote the lyrics — "Before the fall… I was already yours."
I wasn't thinking about romance. I was thinking about the kind of bond that forms long before either person understands it. The kind that destroys as much as it saves. The kind that rewrites futures and burns empires to the ground.
Jimmy and Sofie don't fall in love. They descend into it. And this song is the echo of that descent.
"I feel you in the silence, like a shadow on my skin."
"You're the wound I keep reopening, the love I can't deny."
"Before the fall… I was already yours."
This is not a gentle love story. It is a war. A vow made in the dark. A truth neither of them can escape.
Bringing the visuals to life felt like stepping into their wreckage — the shadows, the tension, the hunger, the ache. Shaping the music felt like stitching their heartbeat into sound.
And today, I finally shared it.
If you've read Before The Fall, I hope this song feels like slipping back into the storm — the memory he can't recall, the truth she carries alone, the obsession that grows teeth.
If you haven't, I hope the music still finds you. Quietly. Deeply. Like a shadow on your skin.
Thank you for walking with me through this world — through its darkness, its beauty, its broken vows. This is only the beginning.
"Before the fall… I was already yours."
She can run. She cannot hide her pulse.
Today I'm sharing two lyric videos for The Savage Pulse, Book 2 of the Fractured Vows Saga. The next chapter in a story that was never really about falling. It was always about what happens after.
This song belongs to Jimmy Donovan. He is the one singing it. And it is sung straight to Sofie.
He already fell. That part happened a long time ago, somewhere between the contract and the night neither of them talks about. What he cannot accept is that she is still trying to outrun it.
She is the one hiding her feelings. She is the one running.
So he sings to her. Because she cannot hide that. She can keep her distance, keep her silence, keep every wall standing exactly where she built it, and it will not matter, because he already knows where her pulse is going. He is obsessed with proving it. Proving that her body tells the truth even when she will not.
When I wrote, "Savage pulse... beating for you,"
I was writing a man who already knows he has lost control, and has decided he does not want it back. He just wants her to stop pretending she has any control of her own.
This is not a song about two people falling together. It is about one of them already fallen, and refusing to let the other one hide.
"You keep your distance, but I still know / Your pulse is telling me where you'll go."
"Every time you run, it pulls you close."
"This savage pulse... is yours to read."
It is about both of them in the end. Her fear, his hunger, the same heartbeat caught between them. But the voice in this one is his. And he is not asking permission.
Bringing this one to life felt different from the first. Quieter, more dangerous. Less storm, more stillness right before it breaks.
Two lyric videos. One pulse neither of them can outrun.
Thank you for staying in this world with me. The fall already happened. Now comes the reckoning.
A pulse is normally soft, steady, human. A savage pulse is a heartbeat that's too fast, too intense, too overwhelming, too wild to control. It's desire that feels like it's attacking from the inside. The kind of attraction that feels dangerous because it actually is.
"Savage" adds the idea of raw, primal, unrestrained, consuming. So the phrase becomes a desire so strong it feels like a physical force. This is Jimmy's energy toward Sofie. Not gentle longing, but a fierce, unstoppable pull he has stopped trying to fight.
The "pulse" is also the rhythm of obsession. Sofie feels it as fear and attraction. Jimmy feels it as possession and hunger. The tension between them becomes its own heartbeat. The Savage Pulse is the dangerous rhythm that ties them together, whether they want it or not.
In one line: "Savage Pulse" means a fierce, uncontrollable force of desire that feels like a heartbeat turned dangerous.
"Savage pulse… beating for you."
"This savage pulse… is yours to read."
He didn't move toward her. He didn't say her name. He simply turned — and looked.
That was the thing about Donovan that no one warned you about. It wasn't the way he spoke or the way he moved. It was the way he looked at you. Fully. Without apology. Like you were the only still point in the universe and he had all the time there was to memorise you.
Sofie felt it hit her square in the sternum.
"You're staring," she said.
"Yes," he said. Just that. No charm, no deflection. Just the clean flat truth of it.
She should have walked away. Every sensible part of her was composing the exit. But her feet had apparently received different instructions.
"That doesn't bother you?" she asked.
"Should it?" He tilted his head. "You're still here, Sof."
She opened her mouth. She closed it.
He smiled — not with his mouth, just his eyes, just barely — and that small quiet devastating expression was somehow worse than anything else he had ever done to her combined.
The clipboard. The pen. The carefully memorised sequence of a baseline physical she had performed dozens of times without once losing her composure.
Then Donovan walked in — and she lost count at step three.
"Blood pressure first," Sofie said. Clipped. Clinical.
"Sure." He held out his arm without looking away from her face. "How's yours?"
"Excuse me?"
"Your blood pressure. You've recapped that pen four times and we haven't started."
She set the pen down. Picked up the cuff. Focused.
"I need you to be quiet, Donovan."
"I am quiet." A pause. "That's what's bothering you."
He was right. The silence had weight — warm, heavy, entirely unprofessional — pressing against every boundary she had built over two years.
"Breathe normally," she said.
"I haven't breathed normally," he said quietly, "since the day I walked back into this building and saw you in that corridor."
She read the number on the cuff. Then she read it again. Her hands, she noted with grim precision, were shaking.
Twelve pages. Her name already at the bottom — printed, not handwritten — as though her consent had been assumed before she arrived.
She read every clause. He let her. He sat across the desk without speaking, without shifting, without doing anything except watching her read — and somehow that was more unsettling than if he had pressed her.
"This gives you complete authority over my schedule," she said.
"Yes."
"My living arrangements."
"Yes."
"Everything," she said flatly.
"Everything," he agreed. No apology. No softening.
The pen sat at the edge of the desk — close enough to reach without leaning, as though he had calculated the exact geometry of her capitulation.
"And if I refuse?"
He was quiet for a long moment.
"Then you refuse." He leaned forward, just slightly. "But we both know you won't."
She picked up the pen. Not because he was right. Because somewhere beneath the fury, a part of her wanted to see what happened next.
She had shouted at him before. Argued, walked out of rooms, hung up calls, constructed elaborate silences to communicate exactly how little he affected her.
None of it had worked. But this — this stillness, the way she stood with her back to him and said nothing — this was what finally got through.
"Sofie." His voice came out rougher than he intended.
She didn't turn.
"I know what I did," she said. Steady. Quiet. "I just need to know if you do."
He crossed the room. Didn't touch her — just stood behind her, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him, trying to find words he had never been built to say.
"I know," he said finally. "I know exactly what I did."
She turned. The look on her face — not angry, not cold, just tired, tired in the way that meant she had been carrying something alone for too long — did something to him no training had ever prepared him for.
He reached for her hand. She let him take it. And in that silence, something broken for two years began, very slowly, to reset.
She had made a mistake. She knew it. He knew it. The difference was she was prepared to discuss it calmly — and he had apparently decided the appropriate response was to back her against a wall and wait until she explained herself.
"Get out of my way, Donovan."
"No."
"I said—"
"I heard you." Arm above her head, not touching, just there. Present. Immovable. "Tell me why you did it."
"It's none of your—"
"Everything you do is my business. Page four. You signed it."
The fury rose clean and hot and she met his eyes with every ounce of it.
"Then take me to court," she said.
Something moved across his face. Not anger. Something older and considerably more dangerous.
"I don't want to take you to court." His voice dropped. "I want you to tell me the truth. Just once. Without the armour."
The lantern caught the edge of his jaw. She hated how much she noticed. She hated, more than anything, that the truth he was asking for was right there in her chest — and she was terrified of what happened the moment she let it out.
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