Page 107 of The Substitute Fiancée

My morale collapses.

I have dinner with Emelyne and Mara, then excuse myself quickly, blaming fatigue. They don’t insist.

I collapse into bed, a knot in my stomach. I wish Alexander were here. I miss him, but I don’t want to burden him with my problems. He has enough of his own. I send him a quick text—he doesn’t reply—and eventually I fall asleep.

The following days, I push myself. I produce. Slowly. Each canvas is a fight against time, against the fear of not making it.

Then comes the meeting.

Ms. Mainville.

Mr. Da Silva, head of academics.

Ms. Yin, deputy director of studies.

They lay out their proposal: document the lost works, precisely describe those I intend to produce, explain my intentions. The academic committee will decide mid-January whether I can continue the year…

Two weeks.

Extra work.

A verdict hanging in suspension.

I return to the apartment at the end of the day, drained. The girls aren’t back yet. The silence crashes down on me.

My phone is in my hand before I even realize it.

It’s six p.m. I want to call Alexander. To hear his voice, but that would be selfish—at this hour he must still be at the office.

I set my bag down, take out my sketchbook, and start working.

But deep inside, a dull, uncomfortable certainty takes hold: I’m losing my footing.

*

When Friday evening arrives, I’m exhausted. As planned, Alexander comes to pick me up. Our exchanges have been sparse this week: a few messages, often late. He always replies, even if it’s several hours later. He’s trying to be there for me, but he’s also completely overwhelmed—I can see it clearly. His work consumes him entirely, and I understand. It’s the culmination of so many years of effort that’s at stake for him.

Despite our fatigue, we make a public appearance to maintain our credibility: a dinner at the Four Seasons Hotel George V. The food is exquisite, and the setting is sumptuous.

After dinner, we go back to his place, the penthouse.

We make love passionately. He’s both tender and intense. But as sleep pulls me under, I can’t help feeling a pang in my chest, an emptiness I shouldn’t feel as I fall asleep in the arms of the man I love.

Saturday morning, breakfast is quiet, almost gentle. We’re happy to be together again, but from the first few minutes, I sense a disconnect. We’re both elsewhere, preoccupied, unavailable.

His phone rings. He glances at it discreetly.

“It’s David. I have to answer,” he explains. “It might be important.”

“Yeah, of course.”

I understand. I really do. And yet, I can’t help but feel disappointed. I too sacrificed work time to be here. Time I could have used more productively.

When he hangs up, an hour later, I can’t take it anymore.

“Listen, Alexander… this isn’t the right time for us.”

He clenches his jaw but doesn’t protest.