Page 8 of The Substitute Fiancée

Here, surrounded by art supplies, she comes alive. Her dark eyes shine with wonder. Her hands brush over the paint tubes with an almost religious tenderness.

She talks about her passion with fire. She shares the secrets of different types of watercolor with me—the transparency of Winsor & Newton pigments, colors so pure the light seems to cling to them. This is the real Sam. Who she truly is when she’s allowed to flourish. I watch her stop in front of watercolor paper blocks, think intensely, then move on after a silent debate with herself. She pauses at the brushes too, and I recognize her favorite brand—Raphaël. The tips are so precise they allow her thoughts to take shape, she once told me.

Then she returns to the watercolor pans. She hesitates for a long time between several colors before choosing three. I smile. She’s rationing herself.

I’ve known Sam for seven years now. I’ve watched her grow, move from adolescence into adulthood. And in all that time, I’ve always seen her settle for scraps. Take the bare minimum. Never dare to ask for more.

I hate the way her parents treat her. At least Kristel isn’t like them—though their relationship clearly seems strained.

“All right, I’ve chosen,” she says, holding up her three small pans like trophies.

“Okay,” I reply. “Let’s go pay.”

Then, moving behind her, I grab the four other color pans her eyes lingered on, the sable brushes she praised for their precision, and two blocks of Arches satin-grain paper.

When she realizes what I’m doing, her eyes widen.

“No. Absolutely not. Put that back, Alexander!” she protests. “That stuff costs a fortune.”

She tries to snatch them from my hands, and I lift my arms to keep them out of reach. It’s childish, I know, but her indignant expression makes me want to tease her.

She steps closer and reaches for them again. I back away to stay out of reach. We play this game once, twice—until she loses her balance. She suddenly tips forward and I catch her just in time. My arms close around her, steadying her.

She freezes. Her eyes widen. Her cheeks flush. An emotion I don’t understand runs through me. Then she straightens abruptly and steps back, mortified.

I hide my unease by saying quickly,

“You just helped me spend forty-two thousand euros on your sister. I think you can accept a two-hundred-euro gift, don’t you?”

She studies me, uncertain, then nods.

“Thank you,” she murmurs. “You didn’t have to.”

There’s something in her voice, an emotion I can’t decipher. Are her eyes shining with unshed tears? The fact that such a simple gesture affects her so deeply stirs something profound in me. And makes me want… what? To protect her more? To be the one she can lean on?

I pay quickly and we get back into the car. Gilles merges into Paris traffic and drives her home.

The ride is quiet—comfortable, but different from before. Something has shifted. I couldn’t say exactly what. Sam gazes out the window, clutching the bag of art supplies to her chest like a treasure.

When Gilles stops in front of her building, she turns to me.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” she says, “but know that I’ll cherish these gifts.”

“Thank me by giving free rein to your creativity.”

The smile she gives me is sincere. Radiant. The kind that lights up a face from within.

God, she’s beautiful when she smiles like that. A part of my soul warms just from being near her. What a pity her family doesn’t see her for who she is. When I think they barely give her enough to live on, it makes me sick. And after her outburst the other day, will Arthur really cut her off? The idea of doing that to your own child revolts me.

Sam deserves so much more than this. She deserves to devote herself fully to her art, to be seen, to be recognized. Her talent is immense. She has a unique way of capturing light and emotion.

Maybe once I’m married to her sister, she’ll accept my help.

“Goodbye, Alexander,” she says softly.

“See you very soon, Sam.”

She steps out of the car, and I watch her disappear into her building, her long black hair flowing behind her, her bag of supplies pressed to her heart.