Page 139 of The Substitute Fiancée

I then head to Sam’s place.

My heart beats a little faster as I climb the stairs. I didn’t warn her I was coming, and it’s the first time I’ve seen her since our breakup three months ago.

She’s surprised to see me, but she invites me in anyway. Her gaze drifts toward what I’m carrying, curious, though she doesn’t say a word.

I greet the Lacroix sisters, who give me curious looks as well.

I hand the package to Sam.

Intrigued, she opens it. Pulls away the kraft paper. Then freezes.

Her eyes widen. She recognizes her paintings.

Silence. Long. Heavy.

Then her eyes fill with tears.

“But… how?”

“I found them the night you threw them away.”

My voice is soft, a little hesitant.

“I couldn’t leave them there. I restored them with the help of a fifth-year heritage restoration student.”

She runs her fingers over the surface of the canvases, incredulous, as if afraid they might disappear beneath her touch.

Her emotion tightens my chest.

If only she knew. There’s so much I want to tell her.

But words aren’t enough anymore.

Only time and my actions will show what I’ve truly learned.

For now, seeing her happy is enough.

47. Restored Canvases

Samantha

The fact that Alexander restored my canvases shakes me to my core.

I can easily imagine the number of evenings he devoted to them. He doesn’t need to tell me—I know exactly what that represents.

The hours spent delicately removing the wrinkled canvases from their stretchers. Flattening them, millimeter by millimeter. Mounting them onto new supports before stretching them again. The patience required to learn the gestures, to start over when they fail.

The work of someone who truly cares.

I picture him bent over my paintings, night after night, in the golden light of his penthouse. A gentle warmth spreads through my chest as my fingers brush over the barely visible scars.

“Thank you,” I whisper, my throat tight. “Thank you for doing this for me.”

“I loved every minute of it.”

His gesture, his restraint, the love I hear in his voice—it all stirs me deeply. The urge to throw myself into his arms, to hold him, surges through me, but I hold back. I’ve learned my lesson. This time, I want to take things slowly, to repair what we broke and rebuild on healthier ground.

“I could really use a hot chocolate,” I say as I set the paintings aside, trying to dispel the emotion threatening to overwhelm me. “Would you like one?”