Page 6 of The Substitute Fiancée

My phone vibrates. A message from Kristel.

“Thanks for cutting lunch short. You know Alexander and I have very little time together. Next time, try not to monopolize his attention.”

I stare at the screen, the words dancing before my eyes.

She makes sure I never forget my place.

3. The Ring

Samantha

The following Friday, Alexander picks me up outside the Fine Arts School and takes me to Place Vendôme.

I spot him the moment I step outside, leaning against the chauffeured car, absorbed in his phone. Six feet tall, light brown hair, an athlete’s build, and sharply sculpted features that would have delighted ancient Greek sculptors. And me, too. The late-afternoon sun glints off his watch—a Patek Philippe, a gift from his investors after his first round of funding. When he finally looks up and smiles at me, my heart skips a beat.

All my classmates watch me with envy as I walk toward the car. Aurélie, one of them, gives me a pointed look and silently mouths, “Who is that?” I simply shrug, as if all this were perfectly ordinary. As if my heart weren’t pounding violently in my chest.

When I reach him, he slips his phone away and kisses me warmly on both cheeks. His woody scent fills my lungs, leaving me wanting more. Then he opens the door and invites me into the car.

I smile at the driver and greet him.

“Good afternoon, Gilles. How are you?”

“Very well, Miss Samantha. Nice to see you again.”

We exchange a few words about his wife and his two children as he drives us toward our destination.

“Are you ready?” Alexander asks me.

No. I will never be ready for this.

“Yes,” I lie, with what I hope is a convincing smile.

Place Vendôme stretches out before us, majestic and intimidating. The classical façades, the column at the center, the glittering display windows of the world’s greatest jewelers. Cartier. Van Cleef & Arpels. Chaumet. Temples devoted to eternal love and infinite promises.

The sales associates in the boutique we enter are visibly taken aback by my worn jeans, battered parka, and Converse sneakers. I see their eyes slide over me, assessing, measuring. Still, they welcome us with polite smiles. It must be said that my companion radiates success. His bearing, his confident posture, his exorbitant watch, his tailored suit, his cashmere coat. Alexander is the very image of the young CEO who has made it.

“Mr. Delaunay,” the store manager greets him, stepping forward. “It’s an honor to welcome you.”

Delaunay. I’d forgotten how many doors that name opens. Alexander’s family belongs to old Parisian bourgeoisie—the kind that doesn’t talk about money because it’s always had it.

He quickly explains what he’s looking for, and soon we’re seated in comfortable garnet velvet armchairs, hot coffee served in Limoges porcelain set on the low table between us, while the sales associates present different rings on black velvet trays.

Each one is more dazzling than the last. Diamonds that capture the light and scatter it in a thousand sparks. Platinum settings of extraordinary delicacy. Stones that probably cost more than everything I’ll earn in my lifetime.

I do my best not to think about what we’re doing and try to be honest about which choice would most please my sister.

“This one, perhaps?” the salesman suggests, pointing to a solitaire of remarkable purity.

I study it closely. It’s beautiful, clean, elegant. Exactly the kind of ring I would choose for myself.

“No,” I reply softly. “Something more sophisticated, if possible.”

The salesman nods, understanding immediately.

“I have exactly what you need.”

He returns with a different box. When he opens it, I know I was right.