Page 59 of The Substitute Fiancée

“A week and you didn’t tell us anything?” she says, feigning outrage. “Jesus, Sam, how am I supposed to live vicariously if you don’t tell me anything?”

Alexander raises an amused eyebrow but refrains from commenting. He simply starts the car, a satisfied smile on his lips.

“So?” Emelyne insists. “How did it happen?”

The drive to the Speakeasy is punctuated by Emelyne’s relentless questions, which Alexander and I dodge with varying degrees of success. Complicit glances. Half-truths. Laughter. When we finally arrive, Alexander finds a parking spot not far from the entrance.

We step into the restaurant, and I’m immediately struck by the atmosphere. Red velvet, dark wood paneling, dim lighting… A jazz band plays softly on the small stage, conversations blend with the clinking of glasses, and the ambiance is intimate and warm.

We join Oliver and David, accompanied by their partners, already seated at a round table near the stage. When we arrive, Oliver stands to greet us and introduces Marion, his wife, a warm woman with hazel hair. David then introduces Florence, his partner, a lively brunette with a contagious smile.

I sit between Emelyne and Alexander. He keeps my hand in his, his thumb absently stroking my knuckles beneath the table. Conversations flow, laughter rings out, and I feel good, surrounded by people I genuinely like. Safe.

Dinner is going well until I see Kristel approaching our table with two of her friends.

“Fuck, no,” Alexander mutters when he spots her too.

His hand tightens around mine. Protective. Instinctive.

“Good evening,” she says in a syrupy voice, a perfectly calculated smile on her lips. “What a pleasant coincidence! It’s been ages since we’ve seen each other.”

Her gaze sweeps over our table, lingers on our hands hidden beneath it, and something cold flickers in her eyes. Understanding. Then calculation.

Then, turning to the server passing nearby, she adds with a charming smile:

“Could you please add three chairs so we can join my sister, her fiancé, and their friends?”

Intimidated by her authoritative tone and likely unwilling to cause a scene, the server nods and starts doing as she asks.

Around us, other patrons look on with curiosity. We’re trapped. Impossible to refuse without making a public spectacle. Exactly what she wants.

I feel Alexander stiffen beside me. Oliver and David exchange a worried look. Mara places a reassuring hand on Emelyne’s arm—Emelyne looks ready to pounce like a drawn bow.

Needless to say, the mood collapses like a collapsed soufflé.

Kristel maneuvers herself to the other side of Alexander, literally slipping in between him and Florence with disconcerting confidence. She immediately begins to dominate the conversation, speaking loudly, laughing excessively, acting as if nothing is wrong. As if she belongs here.

“So, Alexander, how’s business?” she asks, placing a hand on his arm. “I hear the IPO is coming up. You must be excited.”

“It’s moving forward,” he replies curtly, pulling his arm away without looking at her.

Under the table, Alexander squeezes my hand gently, keeping contact, letting me know he’s with me—not with her. A silent anchor.

When she notices, her eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. A flash of rage crosses her face before she resumes her mask of perfection. Cracks, quickly plastered over.

The next moment, she suddenly stands.

“Oh, we need more wine!” she announces cheerfully.

She grabs the bottle in the center of the table. I sense her intention just before she acts, but I don’t have time to react. She pretends to stumble, and the bottle tips over, splashing red wine all over my dress and neckline.

The cold liquid makes me flinch. Mortified, I feel the wine soak into my dress, the fabric clinging to my skin. Eyes turn. Whispers rise.

“Oh my God! I’m so sorry, so sorry!” she apologizes, wearing an expression of perfectly acted horror. “I’m so clumsy!”

But I catch the small, satisfied smile hidden behind her apologies and victory, in her eyes.

I don’t bother responding. I simply grab my napkin and try to blot my dress as best I can. Unfortunately, my skin has been stained too, and the wine has already begun to seep into the fabric. There’s no saving it.