Page 112 of The Substitute Fiancée

My blood freezes.

She rises onto her toes and kisses him on the cheek. A tender gesture. He pulls her closer, his arms closing around her—gentle, possessive.

The scene is brief, but it’s enough.

Jealousy floods me—violent, primal—sweeping away all clarity.

Everything snaps into focus with painful clarity: the distance, the silences, the spaced-out messages. She wanted space. Not to think about us. But to make room for him.

Blinded by rage, I fling open the door and stride toward them.

Surprise crosses her face first. Then pure, immediate joy lights up her features when she recognizes me.

She’s a good actress. No doubt about that.

Almost instantly, concern shadows her expression.

Yes. She should be worried.

“So that’s him,” I say coldly. “That’s why you couldn’t even be bothered to send me a message wishing me luck? You were so wrapped up in him you couldn’t spare two minutes to text me on one of the most important days of my life? Since when do you not give a damn about me?

“What?” she panics. “No, Alexander—this isn’t what you think,” she protests, panic overtaking her.

But I refuse to listen. The words spill out, venomous. I want to hurt her as much as she’s hurting me.

“And here I was thinking you were different from your sister.”

She stiffens as if I’ve slapped her.

“Alexander, please… let me explain,” she pleads softly.

“Nothing you have to say interests me,” I cut her off. “It’s over.”

Shock flashes across her face, then pain. And behind her, as if in slow motion, another student approaches the young man who was with her. He places a hand on his shoulder. They turn toward each other and kiss—on the mouth.

The world stops.

It takes me two seconds—an eternity—to understand my mistake. The young man with Sam wasn’t her lover. His partner has just joined him.

I realize my error too late. Shame crashes over me, panic rising fast. I turn toward her, ready to apologize, to take everything back.

But she doesn’t give me the chance. Her expression hardens.

“No,” she says calmly, decisively. “You’ve been very clear about what you think of me.”

Her eyes shine, but no tears fall. That restraint breaks me more surely than sobs ever could.

“I—”

“Stop,” she cuts me off firmly. “As you said yourself so well—it’s over between us.”

And she walks away without looking back, her silhouette dissolving into the crowd of students. In that moment, I understand that I’ve just made the worst mistake of my life. One I may never be able to undo.

I return to the car like an automaton. Gilles watches me in the rearview mirror, silent.

In the building lobby, the concierge’s voice reaches me through a fog.

“Mr. Delaunay? A package was delivered for you yesterday morning.”