Page 3 of The Substitute Fiancée

Her question alerts Emelyne, who steps out of her bedroom with her iPad Pro in hand and studies me closely. The fading evening light crowns her auburn hair with a golden halo, slightly paler than her sister’s fiery mane. I try to smile, but the effort collapses into a terrible grimace.

The sisters exchange a look and, without a word, Emelyne sets her tablet on the kitchen counter and wraps me in her loving arms. I resist at first, because I know exactly what will happen if I let go. But she doesn’t release me, simply murmuring, “I’m here. We’re here.”

Those words, spoken with such gentleness, finish breaking down my defenses. Tears spill despite myself, and my sister-at-heart tightens her embrace. All the pain I carried during that endless walk with Alexander and the drive back finally escapes. Moments later, Mara joins us, closing her arms around both of us.

The comforting scent of the risotto she was making lingers in the air.

I will never thank fate enough for bringing Emelyne into my life. We met during my first year at the Fine Arts School. The Lacroix sisters have been more present for me than my own family. They were there when my heart was shattered. When I realized my sister had gone out with the man I loved, destroying any chance I ever had with him. I needed to flee the family home, which had suddenly turned into a living hell. I lost my appetite and weight. I still remember the horrified look on Emelyne’s face when she saw me return to class after winter break, gray-faced, dark circles under my eyes, swimming in my clothes. They “extracted me in an emergency,” offering to let me move in with them. We’ve been inseparable ever since. This attic apartment in the Marais, with its exposed beams and view over Parisian rooftops, has become my true home.

We stay entwined for a long while, until my tears finally dry. Emelyne gently guides me to the couch while Mara returns to the kitchen counter. She comes back moments later with a steaming mug.

“Chamomile and honey,” she says, handing it to me. “Drink.”

I obey, my shaking hands wrapped around the comforting warmth of the ceramic. They settle on either side of me, waiting patiently until I’m ready.

In a broken voice, I tell them everything. The walk along the Seine. Alexander’s announcement. His request that I accompany him to Place Vendôme to choose the ring. Each word scrapes my throat raw, but I keep going, emptying my heart of all the poison that’s built up inside. As always, they listen without judging, without interrupting, without minimizing my pain by saying “you’ll find someone else” or “it’ll pass with time.”

When I finish, a heavy silence settles. Emelyne clenches her fists, her jaw tight.

“Fuck! How can he be so blind?” she blurts out.

“Emelyne,” Mara says gently.

“What? It’s true! How can he ignore how vicious and toxic she is? How can he not see that she’s manipulating him? It’s beyond me!”

“He’s a genius with algorithms, not human relationships,” Mara counters. “His secret compatibility criteria are useless when it comes to his own life.”

Emelyne turns to me, worried.

“You’re really going to help him choose the ring?” she asks.

I lower my eyes to my now-cooling tea and answer,

“Yes.”

“Sam…” Emelyne begins.

“I know,” I cut her off. “I know I should refuse. But…”

My voice breaks. How do I explain it?

“I need this to draw a final line under him.”

And I truly mean it. By choosing this ring for my sister, I’ll bury my hopes, the hope that one day he might see me the way I see him.

It’s time for me to move on.

*

As I expected, Alexander is there this Sunday, at the weekly family lunch at my parents’ place.

Normally, I always have a good excuse not to come. Unfortunately, today is Saint Elizabeth’s Day, and I couldn’t miss my mother’s celebration, especially since Andrew, away on business abroad, won’t be there. Lucky man.

So here I am.

Despite our differences, she remains the woman who gave birth to me and raised me, even if she was incapable of protecting me. Completely submissive to her husband, she never defended me when he was harsh or unfair, or when he openly favored Kristel, daughter of his first wife, over me, lavishing her with expensive gifts while refusing to buy me even one or two brushes to replace my worn-out ones.

For years, Andrew was the one who took care of me. Quietly, without fuss, he replaced my supplies, sharing with me the money he received from our parents. He was the only one—along with Alexander—who encouraged my passion. His departure for Lyon eight years ago was devastating, all the more so because he rarely comes back to Paris.