Page 101 of The Substitute Fiancée

“Fascinating. My wife, Léa, loves contemporary art. She’ll be thrilled to meet you. Léa!”

A brunette woman with short hair and sharp eyes joins us, a glass of white wine in hand.

“Léa, this is Samantha, Alexander’s fiancée. She’s an artist.”

“Oh, wonderful!” Léa exclaims with what seems like genuine enthusiasm. “What’s your preferred medium?”

“Watercolor and oil painting.”

“I love watercolor. You’ll have to show me your work sometime.”

“It would be an honor.”

We exchange contact information before Alexander gently pulls me along toward other conversations.

They’re all watching me with palpable curiosity—who is this artist who captured the heart of MatchMapping’s CEO?

I play my role. I smile. I answer politely. But with every introduction, a question grows inside me, insidious.

As we head toward the bar, the question finally escapes my lips.

“How is it that no one seems surprised to see me with you?” I ask quietly. “Don’t they remember Kristel?”

Alexander’s face tightens slightly, as if a veil has fallen between us. He takes two glasses of champagne and hands one to me before answering.

Alexander’s expression tightens slightly, as though a veil has dropped between us. He takes two glasses of champagne and hands one to me before answering.

“She only met this group two or three times.”

“In three years?”

He takes a sip, avoiding my gaze.

“She hated these kinds of events. My friends bored her. In her opinion, my colleagues were nerds. Tech talk exhausted her. After a few attempts where she never cracked a smile, I stopped asking her to come with me.”

I sip my champagne, trying to understand. Trying not to show how unsettled this revelation makes me.

“And you?” I ask. “Did you go to her events?”

“Rarely,” he admits, guiding me toward a quieter corner near the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking an illuminated garden. “She turned every gathering into a networking opportunity. It was… unpleasant.”

He pauses, staring into his glass as if searching for answers.

“We had separate lives. We met at one place or the other, and that was… enough.”

I frown, unsettled. What kind of couple can function like that for three years? How can you love someone without ever wanting to integrate them into your life? Without wanting to share your friends, your passions, your everyday world?

And suddenly, I understand better how destabilizing our relationship must be for him. I ask him to be emotionally involved, to be present, to let me into every corner of his life. I disrupt his habits, his certainties, his comfort zone.

Alexander seems to read my thoughts.

“It was comfortable,” he continues, finally meeting my gaze. “I didn’t ask for more. MatchMapping took up most of my time and energy, and she didn’t demand anything.”

“Like me?” I ask uncertainly.

“No. It’s not the same at all,” he protests. “At the time, I thought it was enough. No drama, no complications. We had our routines, our moments together. I worked, she lived her life.”

He turns fully toward me, and in his eyes I see a vulnerability that tightens my chest.