Page 96 of The Substitute Fiancée

I reinforce my original theme.

Where I once sought transparency, I now add the ephemeral. The temporary. What can be erased, destroyed, lost.

I deepen the contrasts. My brushstrokes grow stronger.

Lines that break.

Forms that dissolve.

I work until exhaustion—until my arms give out, until my shoulders scream in pain.

It’s my way of taking control again.

Of turning destruction into creation.

*

Emelyne has already left when Alexander returns to the penthouse. We kiss hello. An automatic, almost mechanical ritual.

“Good day?” he asks, setting down his briefcase.

“Productive,” I reply.

“Good. I’m starving. If you don’t mind, I’d like us to eat quickly. I still have work to finish for tomorrow morning.”

I’m disappointed, but I don’t show it.

The day hasn’t come when I’ll beg a man for affection.

Dinner unfolds in distracted silence—though I’m not even sure he notices. He eats quickly, his mind already back on charts and analyses. I push the food around on my plate, watching this man who shares my table yet feels miles away.

“Are you okay?” he suddenly asks.

I look up. He’s watching me, a flicker of concern in his eyes.

“Yes. Why?”

“You barely ate.”

“I’m just not very hungry.”

He nods, accepts my answer without digging deeper.

Because digging would require time, attention, energy—things he clearly doesn’t have to give me tonight.

When he gets up to clear his plate, I stay seated, watching him rinse his dishes quickly before disappearing into his office.

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” he calls over his shoulder. “Just one last thing to finish.”

I don’t insist. What’s the point?

The bed feels enormous. Alexander’s absence weighs on me more than I want to admit. I lie down on what has become my side, curling in on myself slightly, as if trying to take up less space in this vast emptiness.

Minutes stretch. My eyelids grow heavy. I fight sleep for a while, waiting for the sound of his footsteps, the creak of the door, the familiar weight of his presence. But sleep eventually takes me.

Much later, through the haze of dreams, I feel the mattress sink gently. Alexander slips into bed carefully, as if afraid of waking me.

He moves closer. His hand brushes my shoulder—light, hesitant. His warm breath grazes my neck. He stays like that for a long time, so close I can feel the heat of his body against mine.