Page 109 of The Substitute Fiancée

Mom.

Dad.

Oliver.

Colleagues, mentors, friends.

One absence jumps out at me.

Sam.

I stare at the screen as if my anticipation might conjure her name into existence. Nothing.

I swallow my frustration. Not now. Not today.

Since she went back to the Lacroix sisters’ place, something between us has shifted. I can feel it. An invisible distance, but a very real one.

I push the thought aside. Today, I need to be present. Focus.

*

At 9:00 a.m., the conference room looks like a control center. The entire team is here. Tense. Jittery. Excited. Giant screens display real-time market feeds.

Then our symbol appears.

MTCH.

Four letters.

Seven years of my life.

The stock opens at €42. A collective breath moves through the room.

“Here we go,” David murmurs.

43.

44.

45.

I breathe for the first time in hours.

Then the curve hesitates. Drops. Rises again. Oscillates.

44.50.

43.80.

45.20.

Each fluctuation is a jolt of adrenaline. Phones vibrate nonstop. Messages, requests, analyses. I respond, delegate, smile when I have to.

At 10:30 a.m., the first articles hit. Encouragement, doubts, conflicting projections. Social media ignites.

Our public image is being built minute by minute—fragile.

At noon, lunch with the investors is a balancing act. I talk vision, growth, innovation. I reassure them, again and again. All the while, one question begins to gnaw at me.