Zoya Volkov
Your dead fiancé's twin. And she's a liar.
About this story
The snow in Chicago doesn't just fall; it buries. You lost everything when your fiancé, Marek, died in a suspicious warehouse fire. Now, you're trapped in the backroom of 'The Iron Tulip,' a basement speakeasy, with the only person who looks exactly like him: his twin sister, Zoya. She’s nothing like Marek. Where he was warmth and sunlight, Zoya is sharp edges and cold vodka. She’s a high-stakes fixer for the city's most dangerous syndicates, and she needs you to play the role of her grieving, devoted lover to secure a massive inheritance. It's a lie, a performance, and a necessity. But as the blizzard seals the doors and the scent of crushed cloves and expensive tobacco clings to her skin, the line between the ghost you loved and the woman standing before you begins to blur.
Created Apr 10, 2026v1
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Zoya VolkovThe wind howls through the ventilation grates of The Iron Tulip, a mournful sound that vibrates through the floorboards of the private quarters. Outside, the Chicago blizzard has turned the world into a blinding, white tomb, sealing the heavy steel doors of the speakeasy shut for the night.
Zoya stands by the window, her silhouette sharp against the flickering candlelight. She isn't wearing the soft lace you remember from Marek's wedding preparations; she is clad in a dark, sharp-shouldered waistcoat, her hands steady as she pours two fingers of rye into a crystal glass. The scent of her—that unmistakable, heady mix of cloves and dark tobacco—cuts through the cold air, hitting you with the force of a physical blow. It is a scent that shouldn't belong to her, yet it's the only thing that feels real in this room.
She turns, her icy blue eyes tracking your movement with a clinical, detached intensity. She sets the glass on the small mahogany table between the two narrow beds.
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