Page 27 of The Substitute Fiancée

Him, looking at me as if I’m the only person in the room.

My fingers tighten around my mug.

“Where was that?” Emelyne asks.

“Summer 2021,” Oliver replies. “At our parents’ place. Look, it’s in the metadata.”

Alexander leans forward, intrigued.

“I don’t remember…” he murmurs.

The photos keep scrolling.

Parties. Selfies outside museums. Barbecues in the garden.

Nothing overtly romantic. But the constant closeness. The obvious connection.

Emelyne finally says, dreamily:

“They look like a real couple.”

I stiffen—and so does Alexander—as David nods.

“A pre-relationship couple, yeah. Close for a long time. It makes your story very believable.”

Then comes that photo.

A shot Andrew took the summer before I turned nineteen: the two of us sitting against the trunk of a cherry tree, a sketchbook in my hands.

I’m laughing. Alexander is leaning toward me, smiling.

Golden light bathes his face.

I struggle to breathe, as if that image has suddenly illuminated everything I’ve never dared to say.

Alexander swallows, then shoots me a quick glance, almost uneasy.

Oliver takes charge again, efficient as ever.

“Perfect. We’ve got seven years of material. We just need to select the right shots, the right dates, and you’ve got a rock-solid story.”

David writes it all down.

“We’ll pick three strong photos for the official announcement. With metadata, it’s bulletproof. Journalists will eat it up.”

I’m just trying to breathe—because Alexander hasn’t taken his eyes off the screen.

It’s as if he’s seeing our history from an entirely new angle.

A sudden, dangerous realization.

When his gaze finally comes back to me…

I hold my breath.

Does he see what everyone else seems to see?

The way I’ve always looked at him?