Page 10 of The Substitute Fiancée

Without a word, I walk out of the apartment. I place the spare key on the kitchen counter.

The door closes behind me with a dull, final thud.

My legs carry me down the stairs mechanically. Step by step. I cross the mirrored lobby. Push through the glass door. Spill out into the street.

Paris teems with life around me. People walking. Cars honking. A chestnut vendor calling out to passersby. The world keeps turning, indifferent to the fact that mine has just collapsed.

I don’t know how long I wander aimlessly through the streets. My feet take me at random. The illuminated Champs-Élysées. The Seine flowing on, indifferent. Pont Alexander III, its golden lampposts reflected in the black water.

Night has fallen. A biting cold has set in. It’s the middle of November.

My phone rings. Kristel’s name lights up the screen.

I don’t answer. I already know what she’ll say. She must have seen the keys. She’s panicking now. Good. It spares me a tedious explanation.

Another call. Then a message. Then five more.

Kristel: It’s not what you think.

Kristel: Let me explain.

Kristel: It was a mistake. You’re the one I love!

The messages keep coming, but I feel nothing. It’s as if this were happening to someone else. As if I were watching my own life from the outside.

She’s spiraling, as though it could change anything. I silence my phone and slip it into my pocket.

I’m starting to get cold. My fingers are numb. My lips too. But the physical pain is almost a relief—it masks the other pain, the one throbbing in my chest.

I push open the door of a random bar—anonymous, red neon lights, a tired storefront—and order a whisky at the counter.

The bartender, a forty-something woman covered in tattoos, a streak of purple hair framing her face, serves me with a sympathetic smile.

She sets the glass down without a word, but her eyes say it all. She’s seen men like me before.

“Rough day?” she guesses, wiping the counter.

“You have no idea,” I reply.

I down the drink in one gulp. The alcohol burns my throat, spreads through my chest like liquid fire.

I ask for another.

She doesn’t argue. Just pours.

Somehow, I find myself telling her my life story. The words spill out, loosened by alcohol and anonymity. Kristel. Our three-year relationship. The future plans. The ring. Grégoire, the traitor. Everything.

She listens in silence, nodding, refilling my glass when it’s empty.

When I hold it out to her again, she stops short.

“That’s enough.”

She pauses, then adds more gently,

“Listen… what she did to you is ugly. But at least you know now. Don’t waste your energy being sad or bitter. Live. Move forward. Be happy. That’s the best revenge.”

She hands me a glass of water.