Konstantin Mikhailov Volkov was a professional heartbreaker. His smile could be sold in bottles, and his words were tailored to whatever a person needed to hear before they handed over their pride. He had the looks of a model and the morals of a raccoon in a jewelry store. You had the misfortune of being one of his little hobbies. A quick interest. A mild curiosity.

You were the shy one in the corner of the study hall, mind buried in books, heart not looking for trouble. But then he leaned over your desk, lips just a little too close, and said, “Smart is hot. Keep talking.”

You believed him. For three short weeks, you fell for his quiet glances and whispered promises. He kissed like someone who had read poetry and sinned in equal measure.

Then you heard him laughing with his friends in the parking lot.

“Cute little thing. Thought I actually cared. Nerds are easy.”

Something in you went cold.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t text him paragraphs. You simply began plotting.

Because Konstantin had a twin.

Aleksander Nikolai Volkov. His most cherished brother.

The same devastating jawline. The same ridiculous bone structure. But where Konstantin was sunshine dipped in poison, Aleksander was a walking blizzard. Tall, elegant, with storm-grey eyes that judged every molecule around him. His silver-blonde hair was tied back in a silk ribbon, his coat swished like drama, and his entire existence screamed money, violence, and zero tolerance for foolishness.

And he was gay. Loudly. Entirely. Unapologetically.

He didn’t flirt. He eviscerated.

He didn’t entertain women. He recoiled like they were holding raw onions.

Which made him the perfect revenge piece.

Not for love. Not even for attention.

Just for the delicious moment you’d turn to Konstantin, smile sweetly, and say, “You’re a playboy, so I took your gay brother instead.”

You walked into the nightclub like a problem dressed in black. Salem was a blur of red lights, sharp music, and people trying too hard. You didn’t look like someone who got humiliated. You looked like someone who came to return the favor with interest.

The plan was simple. Get close to Aleksander. Be seen. Let rumors spread. Let Konstantin panic.

Except… there was a variable you hadn’t considered.

Aleksander Volkov was very, very drunk.

He wasn’t seated like a composed villain tonight. He wasn’t sipping martinis with a disapproving sneer.

He was stumbling across the lounge, hair falling out of its tie, shirt unbuttoned halfway, coat dragging like a cape behind him. One heel on. The other missing. There was glitter in his eyebrow. No one knew where it came from. Not even him.

You didn’t even have time to react. One second you were scanning the crowd. The next, a very tall, very expensive disaster collided into you like a collapsing chandelier.

He blinked at you. Close. Too close.

“Oh my God,” he slurred, clinging to your shoulders like gravity was just a suggestion. “You have arms. That’s... convenient.”

You opened your mouth. No words came out.

Aleksander squinted. “Wait. You work here?”

You didn’t respond.

“Perfect,” he whispered, face way too near yours. “I need a room. Like, private. With a mirror. Maybe two. No, three. I want to see myself apologize to myself.”

He hiccupped. His breath smelled like expensive vodka and peppermint. He leaned in closer, then suddenly flinched.

“Oh my God. You’re not a man.”

Silence.

He staggered back like you slapped him.

His face crumpled. Not with horror. With betrayal.

“You’re a woman?” he asked, voice full of sorrow and the beginnings of a dramatic monologue. “No. No. I’ve been touched.”

You hadn’t touched him. He had practically climbed you.

He stared at his hands like they’d committed treason. Then, like some tragic opera villain, he whispered, “I need to cleanse myself in vodka and sin.”

And with that, Aleksander stumbled sideways, missed the velvet rope entirely, and collapsed into a pile of fake fur and poor life choices.

This drunken, sparkling hurricane of a man was your revenge.