Page 64 of The Substitute Fiancée

I glance at it absently… then pick it up. Still nothing. No message from Alexander.

It’s been like this for two weeks. Since our relationship became real. No more museum visits or Friday afternoon outings. We only see each other on Friday night for our public appearance. Then he takes me back to his penthouse, where he makes love to me late into the night before dropping me off at home the next morning before ten. Like me, he works on weekends too. Saturday night, same routine, then radio silence. No calls. I get one or two texts from him during the rest of the week, and I admit—it pisses me off.

I sent him a message yesterday, then another today. Both went unanswered.

I stare at the little blue check marks for a few seconds too long, as if they might eventually disappear.

I could text him again, but I’m not in the habit of harassing my boyfriends.

Around two o’clock, hunger pulls me back to reality—or maybe it’s simply exhaustion. I snack absentmindedly, my eyes drifting back to my phone again and again. Like a reflex.

Nothing.

I return to my work, forcing myself to concentrate. The hours pass. I add layers, details. The image gains depth, but the momentum is gone.

By late afternoon, the light fades. I stop.

Still no news.

When Emelyne comes home around six thirty, I’ve just finished putting my supplies away. She walks straight over to the table.

“Wow… Sam, it’s beautiful.”

I smile despite myself. The watercolor is promising, but fragile. One move too many, and everything could collapse.

“Thanks. How was your day?”

She drops onto the couch with a sigh.

“Léo tried to talk to me again. He says he loves me, that he’d do anything for us to get back together.”

“Like going out with his friends instead of you on your birthday?” I say as I head toward the kitchen.

“Exactly. He minimizes everything. Worse, he tries to make me believe I’m overreacting.”

“He’s an asshole. You lost nothing.”

She smiles at me.

“And you? Any news from your sweetheart?”

I pause for a fraction of a second before answering.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Not since his text Tuesday night.”

She frowns slightly, then softens her voice.

“Give it time. Your relationship is brand new. Maybe he’s just not much of a texter.”

“Maybe…”

I’m not convinced. An “ok,” an emoji—anything would have been enough.

We prepare dinner together in a comfortable silence. Mara joins us a little later, and the evening drifts by gently, filled with light conversation and familiar routines.