Chapter 2

*Elena's POV*

“I’m going to make you feel exactly what I felt, Alex,” I whispered to the night air, my voice raw from crying. “You slept with my twin like she was me? Fine. Tonight, I’ll sleep with someone who’ll make you wish you’d never been born.”

My phone wouldn’t stop ringing. His name flashed across the screen again—My Heart—followed by a dozen missed calls and one desperate voicemail I didn’t bother opening. “Elena, baby, please pick up. It was a mistake. I love you. Call me back. I’m losing my mind here...”

I laughed, as I crossed the street toward The Velvet Den. The old bar where only old billionaires with big bellies and bigger egos nursed their drinks in leather booths, laughing too loud about deals that could ruin countries. I didn’t care. I wanted to disappear into the haze.

The calls kept coming. Ring. Ring. Ring.

“Enough,” I muttered. I stopped under a flickering streetlamp, thumbed open my settings, and deactivated the entire line. “You don’t get to reach me anymore.”

The heavy wooden door swung open and warm light spilled over me. I headed straight for the counter. The bartender looked up and damn, he was young. Maybe twenty-eight. His name tag read Liam.

“Rough night?” he asked, his voice low and smooth.

I slid onto the stool, my bag dropping with a thud. “Four shots of your strongest. And keep them coming until I forget my own name.”

Liam raised an eyebrow, but he poured without question. The first glass burned down my throat like liquid fire. The second made my blood hum. By the fourth, the world tilted just enough to feel dangerous.

“You’re not like the usual crowd,” he said, leaning on the counter, his eyes tracing my face. “Most women who walk in here are on the arms of men twice their age. You… you look like you’re about to set the place on fire.”

I laughed. “Maybe I am. My fiancé fucked my twin sister tonight. Thinking she was me.” The words tumbled out, raw and ugly. “Tomorrow was supposed to be my wedding. Instead, I’m here. So tell me, Liam… do you want to help me forget?”

His eyes widened. “Whoa. Hold on. I don’t...”

“Please.” I reached across the counter, my fingers brushing his wrist. My voice dropped, trembling with everything I’d lost. “I need to feel wanted. Even if it’s just for one night. Don’t make me beg.”

He swallowed hard, glancing around the bar like someone might hear. “Lady, you’re beautiful...God, you’re stunning but I could lose my job. This place is for...”

“I don’t care about your job.” Another shot burned its way down. I was floating now, loose and reckless. “I care that my sister is probably laughing right now. I care that the man I loved chose her face over my heart. Dance with me, Liam. Touch me. Make me feel something that isn’t pain.”

He stared for a long beat, his chest rising fast. Then something shifted in his eyes.... pity that turned into want. “Shit,” he muttered. “One dance. That’s it.” He called over his shoulder, “Jake, take the bar for thirty.”

The dance floor was small. Liam pulled me close, one hand on my waist, the other sliding up my back like he’d been waiting to touch me all night. Our bodies moved together.

“You’re shaking,” he whispered against my ear. “Still sure about this?”

I tilted my head back, my eyes locked on his. “I’ve never been more sure of anything. You feel good, Liam. Strong.... Not like him.”

His grip tightened. “You’re dangerous when you’re hurt, you know that? The way you look at me… like I could fix everything.”

“You don’t have to fix me,” I breathed, my lips brushing his jaw. “Just break me a little more. Make it feel good.”

We danced until the song ended and the next began, our bodies pressed so close I could feel his heart hammering. He kept staring, mesmerized, like he couldn’t believe someone like me would choose him so freely. “You’re the most beautiful woman who’s ever walked through those doors,” he said, voice rough. “And the saddest. I hate that.”

“Then stop talking and kiss me.”

Upstairs, we got into his private room and we got entangled in an intimate kiss. I kissed him back harder, pulling him closer.

“Wait...” I gasped, breaking the kiss. I fumbled for my phone, hit record, and held it up. Our lips met again, slower this time. I pulled back just enough to smile right at the camera, wicked and broken. “Smile for me, Liam.”

He chuckled against my mouth, confused but turned on. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Making sure someone feels what I felt.” I kissed him again, deeper, then stopped to grin at the lens. “Keep going.”

I set the phone on the nightstand, still recording, and reached for his shirt. His buttons flew as I tore it open. “Take pictures with me,” I whispered, my voice thick with alcohol and revenge. “I want proof.”

Liam’s hands trembled on my hips. “You’re wild. You know that?”

“Wild enough for you?” I pushed him onto the bed, climbed over him, and snapped the first photo...my tongue tracing slow, wet lines down his bare chest. He groaned, while his fingers digged into my thighs.

“Fuck…...”

“Say it again.” Click. Another photo: my mouth on his nipple, Click. Our tongues tangled, messy and hungry, my hand fisted in his hair. Click. Click. His hands sliding under my dress, pulling me down until I felt every hard inch of him.

We didn’t talk much after that. Just gasps and moans and the slap of skin. He moved inside me like he wanted to memorize every second, whispering, “You’re so fucking beautiful when you let go,” and “Tell me if it’s too much.” I rode the wave of pleasure and pain, crying out when it hit, because for a few minutes he made me forget the twin in Alexander’s bed.

After, we lay tangled, breathing hard. I grabbed my phone. I sent every photo, the short video clip. All of it to Alexander in one brutal message. Then I typed the final text:

*A taste of your own medicine, dear husband.*

I hit send, dropped the phone, and fell asleep on Liam’s chest, his arm heavy around me like he didn’t want to let go.

Sunlight stabbed my eyes. I woke up late, and immediately grabbed my phone. The time said 10:27 a.m. I blinked, and checked the messages.

Seen. Alexander had seen everything.

A slow, vicious smile curved my lips. “Good.”

Then a notification popped up: *Alexander Steele Fan Base is live now.*

I tapped it.

The screen filled with a sunlit cathedral. Flowers everywhere. Guests in designer suits. And at the altar—Alexander in a black tux, looking pale and wrecked. Beside him stood Eliza in my wedding dress, her veil pushed back, glowing like she’d won the universe.

The priest’s voice crackled through the live feed. “Do you, Eliza Thompson, take Alexander Steele as your lawfully wedded husband?”

Eliza’s smile was pure triumph. She leaned into the mic, her voice ringing with happiness.

“YES! YES, I DO!”

“What the bloody hell?” I screamed.