Page 5 of The Substitute Fiancée

“I’m not a baby. And I’m not asking for your approval or permission. I was informing you.”

I rise slowly.

“As for the money… I won’t need it anymore. You can stop the transfers.”

I push back my chair and leave the table.

“Enjoy your meal.”

And for the first time in my life, I walk away with my head held high.

As I step out of the sixteenth arrondissement apartment to head for the metro, Alexander catches up with me. I hear his footsteps behind me, quick against the sidewalk.

“Come on, I’ll drive you,” he says, reaching my side.

“You’re not staying?” I ask, surprised.

“No. I’ve got work to finish for tomorrow’s investor meeting,” he replies, opening the door of his Mercedes SL parked twenty meters from the entrance. He waits for me to get in before closing it.

As he walks around the car to the driver’s side, I feel a gaze on me. I look up and see my sister watching from the living room window on the third floor, her eyes filled with hatred. The fact that Alexander is driving me home does not please her.

A shiver runs through me. I know she’ll find a way to make me pay for it, sooner or later.

Alexander starts the car and eases into traffic. The hum of the engine fills the silence. Paris slides past behind the tinted windows—Haussmann buildings, café terraces, hurried pedestrians.

Despite its obvious power, the car isn’t ostentatious. And I like his steady, controlled way of driving. Nothing aggressive, nothing showy. Just like him.

I watch him out of the corner of my eye. His hands on the steering wheel, long, strong fingers. The way he concentrates on the road, brows slightly furrowed. I etch these details into my memory—his focus, his restraint, that natural elegance. As if, somehow, I already know that all our moments together will end once he’s married. There is no alternate universe in which Kristel would tolerate me spending time alone with her husband.

“You know,” Alexander says after an uncomfortable silence, “Van Gogh only sold one painting during his lifetime.”

I smile at his awkward attempt to cheer me up and tease him,

“So you’re telling me I should prepare myself to sell only one piece in my entire life?”

“No! No!” he protests, horrified by the idea. “What I mean is, what matters is the passion you put into your work. Social and financial recognition isn’t the only way to validate artistic creation. Your art is beautiful because it expresses something pure, something true. Galleries will eventually see your real value.”

His voice is so sincere, so convinced, it makes me want to cry.

That’s why I love this man so much. He has his own way of being there for me. He believes in me when my own family refuses to. Even Andrew doesn’t have such faith in my work.

“Thank you,” I whisper, my throat tight.

He shouldn’t be the one comforting me, defending me, understanding me. He’ll soon be my sister’s fiancé…

The car stops in front of my building. I unbuckle, my hand on the door handle.

“Sam,” he calls before I get out. “About Place Vendôme… you’re still okay with it? Because if it’s too much—”

I should say no. But I see the small spark of hope shining in his eyes, and I answer,

“Yes. Send me the time slots.”

His smile lights up his face.

“Thank you. Truly.”

I step out of the car and watch him disappear into Paris traffic, the Mercedes’ taillights vanishing around the corner.