Page 91 of The Substitute Fiancée

His voice cracks.

“Don’t push me away. I’m not your parents. I’m learning. I can do better.”

He dared. He used my wounds against me. I never would have thought he’d be one of those men.

“You’re right,” I say finally. “You’re not my parents.”

Relief is instant, visible. His shoulders sag slightly.

“But you end up hurting me just as much.”

The blow lands. Did he really think he’d get off that easily?

He has no reply. I let the silence stretch, heavy with unspoken truths and open wounds.

When the nurse returns to announce visiting hours are over, he rises reluctantly. He hesitates, then presses a kiss to my forehead.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs against my skin. “I’ll make mistakes again. We’ll need time to adjust to each other. But I care about you, never doubt that.”

I know.

Just not enough.

29. Investigation

Samantha

The night was difficult. My thoughts kept returning to our ransacked apartment and my destroyed work. How will the school react? Will they make me repeat the year? Without my parents’ financial support, I can’t afford that. My savings won’t be enough.

I also thought about Alexander. About our relationship. Our worlds and our priorities are so different.

Will we be able to adjust to each other? I’m not sure.

In the morning, he comes to my room at the hospital to take me back to the penthouse.

He looks awful—drawn features, dark circles under his eyes. He clearly didn’t sleep well either.

He approaches cautiously, as if afraid I might pull away, and kisses me awkwardly in the hair, as though he’s no longer sure he has the right. I let him, without moving away, but I don’t lean into him either.

“Weren’t you supposed to work today?” I ask, surprised to see him.

“I managed it,” he explains simply.

I’m about to protest. I don’t want him giving up his responsibilities for me. The last thing I want is for him to take care of me out of guilt. That wouldn’t be healthy—for him or for me.

As if he can read my thoughts, he stops in hallway and looks straight into my eyes.

“Stop overthinking everything. You fell and lost consciousness. The doctor said someone needs to keep an eye on you. So that’s what I’m going to do.”

“But—”

He places a finger over my lips.

“I’ve organized things with David and my team. Everything’s under control. I’ll do my video calls from the penthouse.”

I nod. I don’t have the energy to argue.

We get into the car. No driver today—Gilles is on vacation for the week. Alexander opens the door for me, and I suppress a grimace of pain as I sit down, my bruises reminding me of themselves all too sharply.