Page 151 of The Substitute Fiancée

The Richelieu Library rises before me, majestic and intimidating. My stomach knots.

The staff greet me as I come in. After all my comings and goings these past few days, they’ve started to recognize me. Their familiarity steadies me a little.

Visitors begin to trickle in. Most head straight for the reading rooms, ignoring the exhibition galleries.

I continue on to the Mansart Gallery.

My thirty paintings are hung, perfectly aligned. The sight should fill me with pride.

Instead, doubt crashes down on me.

Maybe I should have done things differently. My watercolors look too delicate next to the oils, despite their vibrant colors. Is the contrast interesting, like I imagined—or just confusing?

I should have chosen a single medium. Been more coherent.

Am I really answering the question? Movement and Persistence Through Time. Is the connection clear? Or is it only obvious to me, because I know my own reasoning?

Calm down, Sam. Breathe.

I pull out my notes and reread my presentation text for the tenth time this morning. The words blur. This is not the moment to panic. I start my breathing exercises, trying to regulate the stress.

Deep inhale.

Long pause.

Slow exhale.

I did the best I could. That’s all that matters.

I wonder if Alexander will be able to come. He told me he would, but I know things are tense at MatchMapping right now. He has a crucial meeting today with the board of directors, from nine to eleven. In two days, he has to announce the first post-IPO results to the shareholders. From what I understand, he’ll have to present the bad news as well as the recovery plan.

He’s completely overwhelmed.

Maybe I shouldn’t expect so much from him.

At noon, my anxiety spikes.

My phone remains stubbornly silent. I check it every five minutes, just in case I missed a notification.

Will he keep his promise?

Don’t be selfish, Sam. He has a company to save.

Twelve-oh-five. My phone vibrates.

I grab it so fast I almost drop it.

Alexander: I’m leaving the office. Traffic is heavy. GPS says I’ll arrive around 1:00 p.m.

My heart leaps in my chest. He’s coming.

I type a reply quickly.

Sam: That’s great! I’m waiting for you.

I reread the message. Not very mature. I delete it.

Sam: Thank you.