Page 48 of The Substitute Fiancée

“No, Sam,” he protests uneasily.

I stiffen instantly.

Why is he refusing? Why doesn’t he want me to see?

My heart races as I pull out my phone and go to his Instagram.

The photo is beautiful. Bright. Almost intimate.

The caption is simple:

“She said yes!”

Then I scroll.

The comments appear. Each one more vicious than the last.

Jealous girls. Gold diggers. Total strangers who allow themselves anything.

“Who the fuck is this girl?”

“How can he be interested in someone like her?”

“Did you see how dull her hair is? She has zero class!”

“What does he even see in her?”

It’s both caricatural and pathetic. I could have laughed at such absurdity.

Except they’re talking about me.

Alexander gently takes the phone from my hands. I don’t resist. I’ve seen enough.

I walk mechanically toward the window, as if the rooftops of Paris could erase this feeling of contamination spreading through me. My throat tightens. The words keep flashing behind my eyelids—acidic, hateful. I’m no longer used to caring about what people say about me, but I still feel my ego crack.

“You shouldn’t give too much importance to what they’re saying,” Alexander says behind me. “They’re just jealous people who don’t know anything about you.”

His voice is soft, almost tender. I sense his hesitation to come closer.

“I know,” I reply, forcing a lighter tone. “Just give me five minutes to process it, and I promise I’ll be fine after.”

I use my breathing technique to regain control of my emotions. The city lights shimmer.

Behind me, Alexander says nothing. He waits. I feel his presence, his worry hanging in the air between us, almost tangible.

I close my eyes and imagine the authors of those comments: grotesque monsters in ridiculous costumes, spewing their hatred into the void. After two minutes, a smile tugs at my lips despite myself. The image is so absurd. I feel better. I leave my detractors to their frustration and refocus on my life, my present.

I turn back to Alexander. He’s watching me with that worried expression that makes me melt—and despair—at the same time.

“Since you’re here, you’re going to make yourself useful,” I say more lightly. “I have a portrait to do for tomorrow. You’re going to be my model.”

Surprise flashes in his hazel eyes.

“Sam…” he begins, probably checking whether I’m really okay.

“Come on, hurry up,” I interrupt, heading toward my studio corner by the living room window. “You said you wanted to help, didn’t you? Then help me. Sit there.”

I point to the stool in the center of the room. He complies without further protest.