Page 69 of The Substitute Fiancée

Slowly. Deliberately.

23. End-of-year gala

Samantha

The MatchMapping teams have been working around the clock for weeks. Alexander seems satisfied with what has been accomplished. The parameters have been adjusted, the models tested, and the first internal feedback is encouraging.

But now comes the waiting. Waiting for user reactions. And that is the most delicate phase—the one in which everything can still tip. Reputation moves faster than data.

Alexander is determined to speak at MatchMapping’s year-end gala. The employees will be there. The investors too. Three weeks before the IPO, this is not just a celebration, it’s a gamble. A public stress test.

For the occasion, he gave me a dress.

It’s stunning. Yet as I stand in front of the mirror, an unwelcome thought crosses my mind: did he feel ashamed of my clothes, too simple, too inexpensive for his world? I push the idea away at once. But it lingers.

As if he sensed it, he lifts my chin.

“You’re beautiful no matter what you wear,” he tells me. “But when I saw this dress… I thought of you.”

He talks about the simple, elegant cut, the black velvet, the lapis-lazuli blue silk chiffon that catches the light the way water catches pigment. He says it’s a work of art.

And I realize that what moves me most isn’t the dress, it’s the way he looks at me. As if I were already something precious. And it frightens me, because I can feel how much I care about him. How much power he already has over me.

*

When we arrive, camera flashes blind me. Until now, we had avoided the press. But with the IPO approaching and the rumors still swirling, staying invisible is no longer an option. I know my smile matters tonight, more than I would like. Every expression will be read. Interpreted. Priced.

Inside, Alexander introduces me. Colleagues. Investors. Conversations hum around us.

Valuation. Growth. Market confidence. All the words that decide who matters.

I stay quiet and listen. I try to follow along, because understanding his world is also a way of loving him.

But everything feels so different. I feel like a fish out of water. Not quite in my place.

“What do you do for a living?” asks a woman in her forties, the wife of one of the investors.

“I’m a painter,” I reply, almost relieved that she’s speaking to me.

“Oh, how wonderful!” she gushes. “Do you know Estelle Yoril?”

Estelle Yoril?

“Um… no, I don’t think so.”

“She’s an incredible artist. Her work is very highly valued right now. You should look her up. And you—what’s your valuation?”

“I’m just starting out,” I say simply, aware that, for her, my work only has value once it can be priced.

I should be used to that look, to this way of measuring art like a financial asset, but I can’t help finding it terribly reductive.

Alexander’s hand brushes against mine. A discreet gesture, almost an apology for a world that isn’t his. I reassure him the same way. Here, emotions stay hidden.

“Have you ever exhibited in a gallery?” another woman asks.

Eva de La Tour, if I’m not mistaken.

Her gaze is curious, genuinely interested.