Page 82 of The Substitute Fiancée

“I like coming home and finding you here,” he says, pulling me into his arms, his chin resting on the top of my head.

My heart leaps—then tightens just as quickly.

I don’t know what to think of that sentence. I’m only here for a few days, until the girls come back.

When he says things like that, it makes me want more.

Then I remember the way he avoided answering Elias’s question, and everything blurs again.

I try to reason with myself. Love can’t be controlled. It’s not his fault if he still has feelings for my sister. You can’t decide to stop loving someone overnight. It takes time. Patience. I have to give him time to heal.

But those are just pretty words—things I tell myself to keep hoping. Deep down, I only want one thing: to be the only one. No sharing. No shadow of Kristel between us. I want him to love me the way I love him—completely, without reserve, without nostalgia for a past with her.

And that hunger scares me. Because I know what it means: I’m already too invested. Already too in love to protect myself if everything falls apart.

“It’s all because of the smell of lasagna,” I say lightly, trying to mask my turmoil.

He leans in and sniffs my hair dramatically.

“I mostly smell oil paint,” he says, laughing.

I give him a playful smack on the chest, feigning offense.

“That’s not very nice!”

“Why? If it’s true,” he replies, pulling me closer. “I like that smell on you.”

He kisses me, gently at first, then more deeply. And for a few seconds, I forget my doubts. I give in to the feel of his lips against mine, his arms wrapped around me.

“Come shower with me,” he murmurs against my lips. “We still have thirty minutes before the timer goes off.”

Under the hot water, he washes my hair, massages my scalp with a tenderness that makes me almost purr. His hands glide over my soapy skin, attentive, gentle. And when he makes love to me afterward, looking into my eyes with an intensity that takes my breath away, I could swear that I’m the only one for him.

*

The day after Christmas, I head back to my place after Alexander leaves for the office. I need to pick up my watercolor supplies and a few more clothes.

I take the subway, walk up the familiar street to my building. The air is sharp, biting. The sky, a uniform gray, hints at possible snow.

When I slide my key into the lock, the door opens before I even have time to turn it fully.

My heart starts racing.

The door wasn’t locked.

I push it open slowly, cautiously.

“Emelyne? Mara?”

No answer.

I step inside, short of breath, and what I see stops me cold.

No.

No.

No.