Page 43 of The Substitute Fiancée

“But—”

“Listen to me, Sam. Your family might harass you. I know Mara can protect you, but I’d feel better if you stayed with me. I could make sure every day that you’re okay… and that I’m not ruining your life.”

His words tighten my chest. His concern is sincere—it makes me want to give in, and at the same time it awakens my visceral need to stand on my own.

“Listen, let me handle my family,” I reply firmly. “I can’t just leave like that. I have my graduation project to work on. I can’t drop everything.”

He takes a deep breath, as if holding back a sharper reply, then slowly nods.

“All right. But if things get worse, you come to my place. I’ll help you move your painting supplies if needed.”

It’s not an option.

It’s a promise.

*

After lunch, I go back to class. Between the meeting waiting for me at the end of the day—which I haven’t told anyone about—and the diffuse fear of what tonight might bring, my mind struggles to focus. I slip out discreetly before the end and head to my appointment.

I’m jittery as I go down into the metro. A few stations later, I get off and walk toward the Levasseur Gallery.

My palms are sweaty when I push open the glass door.

Inside, the air feels different—calmer, more hushed. A perfectly groomed hostess greets me with a smile.

“Good afternoon. I’m Samantha Chevalier. I have an appointment with Mr. Cédric Levasseur.”

“Perfect. You’re early. He shouldn’t be long. You can wait here.”

She gestures to a low table surrounded by two sleek armchairs. I sit down, slightly intimidated, and let my gaze wander.

The gallery is entirely white—vast, airy, organized over two levels with an elegant mezzanine. Carefully filtered natural light illuminates the space. Sculptures punctuate the room, imposing or minimalist, and the paintings—hung at generous distances from one another—breathe, assert themselves.

The works are remarkable. Almost too remarkable.

I feel small. Illegitimate. As if my canvases couldn’t possibly stand up to such company.

The door opens behind me.

A man in his fifties, silver at the temples, enters the gallery with a confident stride.

“Mr. Levasseur,” the hostess says. “Your appointment has arrived.”

He nods at his assistant, then turns to me with a warm, genuine smile.

“Ms. Chevalier. A pleasure.”

I shake his hand, trying to hide the tremor in my fingers.

“Mr. Levasseur. The honor is mine.”

“Come. Let’s go to my office. We’ll be more comfortable talking there.”

I follow him down a corridor lined with white walls punctuated by contemporary works.

His office mirrors the rest of the gallery: bright, minimalist, and welcoming. Vibrantly colored, decidedly modern pieces cover the walls. Nothing ostentatious. Everything seems designed to put the art—and the artist—first.

He invites me to sit in a leather armchair across from his glass desk.