Page 95 of The Substitute Fiancée

Emelyne says nothing. She knows that in moments like these, I just need time. Time to absorb the shock, the trauma—just like back then, when they took me in after Alexander got together with Kristel. She was already there then, silent but present, letting me cry without judgment, without rushing me to “move on.”

She’s still here today. Faithful. Patient.

And I’m infinitely grateful to her.

She brings me a hot herbal tea, which I drink in silence by the window, watching Paris stretch out below.

With a third of my work gone, does my series still make sense?

A tear slides down my cheek, then another. I haven’t cried once since everything happened. Emelyne wraps me in her arms without a word, and in her protective embrace, I let my grief wash over me.

When I regain control of my emotions, I focus on what I can control: my work. I let go of my original project and sit down in front of the canvas to begin a new sketch.

What I love about Emelyne is that she never feels the need to fill the silence. We’re there for each other—and that’s enough.

At noon, we take a lunch break. Mara chooses that moment to give us an update.

“Everything’s moving along,” she says over the phone. “The lock has been replaced, and I even had an alarm system installed. We’ll be done cleaning by tonight. Tomorrow I’ll buy a few replacement items, and we can move back in as early as January 2nd.”

Behind her, I hear Inspector Sanders laughing and other male voices. No doubt about it—she’s well surrounded. We thank her warmly before hanging up.

“I wonder who all those ‘muscle guys’ are,” Emelyne says with a smirk.

“Mara probably recruited half the precinct.”

We laugh at the idea.

Not long after, I receive a text from Alexander.

Alexander: I hope everything’s going well. Thinking of you.

I reread the message to make sure I understand it correctly.

No question. No invitation to talk.

He’s not really expecting a reply. He’s not asking for details. Just a check-in.

Am I being too demanding?

Or is he walking on eggshells, unsure how to talk to me?

I reply in the same tone, keeping my distance.

Samantha: Everything’s going well. See you tonight.

Then I clear my mind and refocus on my work.

I don’t repaint what was lost. I can’t afford to lose that time. Instead, I move forward.

How do I turn this disaster into something meaningful?

How do I make my art grow from this loss?

How do I add a new dimension to my work?

An idea slowly takes shape. The fragility of art. Its vulnerability to destruction.

That’s it.