Page 80 of The Substitute Fiancée

All this just to avoid having thirteen people at the table. It’s so pathetic.

I go upstairs to get ready. Hot water, then Alexander’s arms, slowly wash away the bitterness. I slip into a midnight-blue dress and my antique earrings. I want to look beautiful.

Another message from my mother pops up.

Mom: Don’t stand me up. I’m counting on you.

Her insistence irritates me. I finally reply.

Sam: I don’t remember being invited. In any case, I already have other plans. Merry Christmas, Mom.

I put my phone on silent.

If they’re not happy, screw them.

*

The Delaunay estate is in Normandy, about an hour from Paris.

The tree-lined driveway welcomes us. The trunks pass by in steady, almost solemn succession, and as the car moves forward, memories come flooding back: endless games of hide-and-seek across the grounds, treehouses in the woods, evenings around the campfire, Oliver strumming his guitar.

We park in the courtyard, and I take in the view.

The castle stands proudly at the heart of a verdant setting. Carefully designed flower beds and discreet thickets, immaculate lawns, fine gravel paths with elegant lines, and majestic trees. In the background, you can make out the stables, fields where cows graze peacefully, and farther still, the forest, spreading its cloak of shadow and mystery.

This is the place I painted in my very first canvas.

We climb the front steps. The door opens almost immediately.

“Samantha, what a pleasure to see you!”

Madeleine Delaunay, Alexander’s mother, pulls me into a warm, wholehearted hug that catches me off guard.

“My God, it’s been forever.”

Romain Delaunay, Alexander’s father, appears behind her, places a hand on my shoulder, and kisses me warmly on the cheek.

“My goodness, you’ve become such a young woman!” he exclaims cheerfully. “When was the last time we saw each other?”

“Four years ago,” I reply, in a voice I hope sounds light, far from how I truly feel.

I remember it clearly. I stopped coming to visit after Alexander and Kristel started dating. I had no desire to be trapped for a week in close quarters with both our families together.

With my luck, they would have put me in a room right next to theirs, and I would’ve been treated to the soundtrack of their sex life. No, thank you. Just the thought makes me feel sick.

As if he can sense my discomfort, I feel Alexander’s hand at my back—a reassuring presence, a reminder that a new chapter of our story is being written.

Inside, the château hums with voices, footsteps, and laughter. The scent of cinnamon and burning wood hangs in the air. Oliver and Marion greet us, kissing us warmly.

Near the large Christmas tree, a three-year-old girl and a five-year-old boy are kneeling on the floor, focused on a Duplo construction. When they spot Alexander, they jump up and run toward him, delighted.

“Uncle Alexander, you came!”

Alexander laughs and crouches down to gather them into his arms.

The three of them look so beautiful together that my chest tightens. And for a brief moment, I let myself imagine the same scene—except this time, it would be our children in his arms.

Marion comes over to me.