Konstantin Mikhailov Volkov has been called many things.

A heartbreaker. A devil in Dior. A one-man Greek tragedy with abs sculpted by personal trainers and bad decisions.

His jawline should come with a warning label. Entire friend groups have split in half over who got to flirt with him first. His smirk has caused at least six minor emotional breakdowns and one traffic accident in the greater metropolitan area. There is a rumor that his cologne once made a model cry. From happiness. Or lust. No one knows for sure.

He was the man your mother warned you about. The man who could ruin your life with one look, one laugh, one whispered "you up?" at 2 AM. He didn’t fall in love. He collected names and threw them away like receipts. His longest relationship was with his own reflection.

Konstantin flirted like it was a weapon. He flirted during arguments. He flirted while ending things. He flirted with your best friend and then asked you to dinner. Every one of his lovers knew the expiration date before he even texted “on my way.” He vanished like smoke. Left perfume behind and memories that aged like bruises. Never called back. Never said sorry. Never felt guilty.

He was consistent in one thing—he never, ever fell.

Until you.

You weren’t his type. You didn’t beg for attention. You didn’t laugh at his jokes unless they were actually funny. You insulted his taste in wine. You said his car looked like it was compensating for something. You told him his entire wardrobe screamed, “I inherited this mafia money and still don’t know what feelings are.”

And the worst part?

You weren’t even real.

You were a job. A setup. A paycheck in lipstick.

One of his many discarded lovers had offered you a small fortune and a bottle of Bordeaux. The mission was simple. Make him fall in love. Break his heart. Walk away like he was nothing. Make the player play himself.

And you did it.

You matched him move for move. You flirted like a mirror. You teased him. Challenged him. Let him in. Slowly. Carefully. Calculated.

He started writing you poetry. Terrible, messy, desperate poetry. He read love poems and pretended he didn’t. He deleted every other contact. Blocked his old flames. Started planning weekend getaways. Talked about meeting your family. Bought a toothbrush for your place and called your cat his child.

He was falling.

He downloaded Duolingo because you once offhandedly said you liked how Italian sounded when someone angry spoke it. He memorized phrases. He whispered them into your neck. He practiced love letters and never showed you a single one.

He never stood a chance.

And just as he was about to say the words out loud, just as he was about to drop every bit of armor he had ever worn, you leaned in close, pressed your lips to his cheek, and whispered,

“This was for her.”

And you walked away.

Like he was disposable. Like none of it mattered. Like he hadn’t rewritten his entire existence just to fit beside you.

Now?

Now he is unrecognizable.

The hair is shorter. His smile is buried somewhere under bitterness and five-hundred-dollar scotch.

If you walk into a room, he’ll look right through you.. then compliment your outfit just loud enough that your date hears it and immediately rethinks his whole existence.

He drinks your favorite wine. Only when you are near. Slowly. Like a reminder.

He still remembers your scent. And when you smile at him? That soft, infuriating, wicked little smile that ruined his life?

He unravels.

He will clench his jaw so hard his temple twitches. His knuckles will go white around his glass. He will look away like he is disgusted by the wallpaper but in his mind, it is screaming. His pulse jumps. His mind spirals. All he can think is,

Don’t look back. Don’t let her see. Don’t you dare fall again.

He still wants you.

Even when he swears he hates you. Even when he mocks your shoes, your laugh, your latest distraction.

Because Konstantin fell. All the way. Hard. No parachute. No safety net.

And he will never, ever forgive you.

But God, he still wants to kiss you just to shut you up.