Page 111 of The Substitute Fiancée

Still nothing.

Today, I proved my worth to the entire world.

I achieved what many thought was impossible.

But the one person I needed today wasn’t there.

And for the first time in a long while, I wonder whether everything I’ve built can really make up for that emptiness.

36. Jalousy

Alexander

I fell asleep with my phone pressed against my chest, like a castaway clinging to a lifebuoy. Pride keeps me from calling her.

Sam’s message doesn’t arrive until after 11:00 p.m., too late to soothe anything. As if she had suddenly remembered how important this day was for me.

Sam: I know today was intense for you. I thought about you all day. I would have loved to hear your voice tonight, but you must be exhausted. I’ll call you tomorrow. I miss you.

Those few words should calm me. Instead, they do the opposite: they fuel a low, simmering anger that’s been growing for days.

No apology. No explanation.

Not even a “sorry” for disappearing when I needed her most.

My mind should be fully focused on the IPO—on the numbers, the decisions that will shape the future of hundreds of people. And yet, I keep circling back to that message.

Too late.

Too detached.

It soothes nothing. On the contrary, it rekindles a burn that’s been smoldering for days.

Is this how she sees our relationship? Silence and absence when I need her the most?

I get dressed mechanically for the office, every movement precise, controlled—as if mastering my body could compensate for the chaos inside.

The first day is behind us, but the days ahead will be just as decisive. The market is a fickle beast: a rumor, an article, a moment of hesitation, and everything can tip.

I spend the morning poring over yesterday’s analyses with my team. The numbers are there—reassuring, without being triumphant. A slight dip at the end of the session. Nothing alarming, but enough to keep that constant tension lodged in my shoulders.

We talk strategy, communication, media exposure. I participate. I arbitrate. I decide.

But part of me remains stuck elsewhere, imprisoned by that message—too distant, too measured.

Even the articles that keep coming—cautious, intrigued, sometimes enthusiastic—change nothing. Every success tastes unfinished. Every victory feels like a half-measure. I should feel relieved, even proud. Instead, there’s this void, this absence that turns every win into a partial defeat.

I don’t call Sam.

It’s time for us to talk. To take stock. To clear the air before this distance turns into a chasm we can’t cross.

I leave the office early and ask Gilles to drive me to the Fine Arts School. My heart speeds up as we get closer, pulled between hope and an apprehension I refuse to name.

As the car stops near the school, I see her stepping outside, wearing that coat and those tall boots I love so much. Her dark hair is tied up in a messy bun, loose strands escaping. She’s beautiful. Natural.

And she’s not alone.

A student walks beside her. His arm is around her shoulders. He leans in, murmurs something. She bursts out laughing—a clear, spontaneous laugh I thought belonged to us.