That Telling MomentChapter 35

Stephen poked at the croissant with his fork, watching flakes of pastry drift onto his plate. The thing had to be at least three days old, possibly older. He’d bought it from the reduced section at Tesco Express in a moment of misguided optimism, thinking future-Stephen would appreciate past-Stephen’s frugality.

Future-Stephen wanted to have words with past-Stephen about his life choices.

The instant coffee wasn’t faring much better, tasting like someone had wrung out a wet cardboard box into hot water and called it a day. Still, it was caffeine, and he needed caffeine to face another day of work.

Two weeks since the attack. The nightmares had downgraded from nightly horror shows to occasional guest appearances. He could walk to the tube without checking over his shoulder more than six times.

His stomach performed a small, traitorous flutter at the thought of seeing Ryland at lunch. They’d fallen into a pattern of sorts. Ryland bringing precisely calculated nutritional offerings to Stephen’s desk, yesterday’s sushi arranged by omega-3 content. The day before, salads colour-coded by vitamin density.

It was ridiculous. But Stephen caught himself looking forward to the explanations more than the food, to the way Ryland’s eyes lit up when he got to the cognitive benefits of selenium.

His phone buzzed, Lysander’s name flashing on the screen. Stephen rolled his eyes. Two weeks of this as well. His twin in full overcompensation mode, calling daily with increasingly creative attempts at reconciliation. Yesterday he’d offered to buy Stephen a car. The day before, a holiday to the Maldives. As if tropical beaches could somehow erase the memory of being mistaken for an OnlyFans star by a deranged stalker.

Stephen let it ring twice more before answering. “What unnecessary luxury are you offering today? Private island? Small country? The Crown Jewels?”

“Steve.” Lysander’s voice came through high and strangled. “Steve, I’m so sorry. I never wanted—”

The fluttery feeling in Stephen’s stomach crystallised into ice. This wasn’t Lysander being dramatic. This was Lysander being genuinely, properly terrified.

“What’s happened?” Stephen cut him off.

“The tabloids.” Lysander was crying now, proper tears audible in his voice. “Someone leaked it. The attack, the stalker, everything. Steve, I’m so fucking sorry.”

Stephen’s fingers were already flying across the keyboard on his laptop, typing his own name into Google with the dread of a 3 AM search on testicle lumps.

The results loaded instantly.

“Oh fuck.”

The Sun’s website filled his screen. Front page of the digital edition, because apparently his humiliation warranted prime placement.

MISTAKEN IDENTITY ATTACK: Stalker Targets Wrong Twin in Shocking Case of Corporate vs Kinky

“I tried to get them to pull it,” Lysander was saying, words tumbling over each other. “Called in every favour, offered stupid money, but it’s already out there. Steve, I—”

Stephen wasn’t listening. He was scrolling through the article with the horrified fascination of watching his own car crash playing out in slow motion.

There they were. Side by side. His LinkedIn photo, professional, serious, the image he’d carefully cultivated for his legal career. Next to Lysander in his teensy briefs and strategic shadows, lips parted in invitation.

The article was extensive. Someone had done their homework.

Stephen Huxley, 25, a junior legal counsel at prestigious firm Dabney, was allegedly attacked by a stalker who had mistaken him for his identical twin brother, Lysander. The latter, who goes by ‘Theo’ online, is one of the world’s most successful male omega content creators on adult platform OnlyFans…

“How?” Stephen heard himself ask. “How did they get all this?”

“Police report,” Lysander whispered. “Someone at the station, probably. Sold the story. Steve, I’ll fix this. I’ll—”

Stephen kept scrolling. The article included helpful details about Lysander’s career, complete with subscription numbers and income estimates. Quotes from “sources close to the investigation” describing the attack in salacious detail. A sidebar explaining the “rare phenomenon” of male omega twins, complete with statistics. Stephen and Lysander were, apparently, the only documented case of identical twin male omegas in the UK. Possibly the world. The article made them sound like circus freaks for the modern age.

And then, because the universe hadn’t quite finished its comedy routine, he saw it.

#TwinGate trending on Twitter/X

“No,” Stephen said, clicking through with the resignation of someone who already knew how bad it would be.

The hashtag was everywhere. Memes were already spawning. Someone had created a “Corporate by day, kinky by night?” template. His face from his corporate headshot was being photoshopped onto Lysander’s content screenshots so it looked like he and Lysander were making content together.

The comments ranged from sympathetic to speculative to vile.

“Plot twist: they’re both doing it and this is elaborate marketing”

“That’s what happens when omegas act like that, asking for trouble”

“Anyone else think the ‘corporate’ twin is lowkey hotter?”

“I’d subscribe to both tbh”

“Bet he’s got an account too, just better at hiding it”

“Steve?” Lysander’s voice seemed to come from very far away. “Steve, are you there? Please say something. I’ll do anything. I’ll shut down my account, I’ll move to another country, I’ll—”

Stephen found himself laughing. Not happy laughter. The kind that sat right on the edge of hysteria.

“Everyone’s going to see this,” he said. “Every single person at Dabney. Every client. Every colleague. They’re all going to look at me and see…”

“I’m coming over,” Lysander said. “We’ll figure this out. We’ll get lawyers, PR people, whatever you need.”

“No.” Stephen stood, phone still pressed to his ear, body moving on autopilot. “No, I’m going to work.”

“What? Steve, you can’t be serious.”

“What else am I supposed to do?” Stephen was already moving towards his bedroom, calculating timing. Shower, clothes, tube journey. He could make it to the office by nine if he hurried. “Hide? Let them think I’m ashamed? Fuck that.”

“But—”

“I have to go,” Stephen said, ending the call before Lysander could protest further.

He stood in his tiny bedroom, looking at his wardrobe. Suits and shirts and ties chosen to project competence, reliability. None of it would matter today. They’d all have seen the article. Seen the photos. Made their judgments.

But hiding would make it worse. Would confirm every salacious speculation, every nasty comment.

Stephen pulled out his best suit. The one he saved for important meetings. If he was walking into the lions’ den, he was going in looking sharp enough to cut.

“Right then,” he told his reflection as he headed for the shower. “Work.”

Because Stephen Huxley was many things; traumatised, furious, about thirty seconds from a complete breakdown. But he was not a coward. And he’d be damned if he let the tabloids, the trolls, or the inevitable office gossip drive him from the life he’d worked so hard to build.