9. Battle Plan
Samantha
I spend the night tossing and turning, imagining every possible scenario, wondering if I’m making the biggest mistake of my life.
But when I open the door the next morning and see him smiling at me, all my doubts vanish.
David and Oliver are standing behind him.
“Good morning,” I say. “Come in.”
I already knew Oliver, of course. He had always been warm and friendly at our family gatherings. As for David, I’d crossed paths with him two or three times, without ever really talking to him.
I make the introductions quickly, and we sit down with Mara and Emelyne over coffee and the pastries they brought.
Then we get to work.
We fine-tune the plan. Dates. Photo shoots. Public appearances. The calendar for the coming months.
Mara’s experience as a private investigator is invaluable. She thinks of everything. Potential inconsistencies. Trick questions. Details that might ring false.
“Your story has to be solid,” she says, scribbling notes. “Journalists will dig. They’ll look for the smallest crack.”
“What story exactly?” David asks.
Alexander and I exchange a glance.
“We’ve known each other for seven years,” I begin. “Our families are close. We spent our summers together. We always got along.”
“And recently,” Alexander adds, “it became… more.”
“When?” Oliver asks. “We need a precise date. When did friendship turn into something else?”
I think for a moment.
“Six months ago,” I suggest. “Recent enough to explain why no one knew, but long enough to seem serious.”
“Six months,” Alexander repeats, looking at me. “Okay. And how did it happen?”
Our eyes lock.
I see a spark of challenge there. As if he’s daring me to say out loud the exact moment our friendship could have shifted.
And my stupid heart starts racing.
“Maybe an evening?” Emelyne suggests. “You were alone, you talked, and—”
“It was after a visit to the Rodin Museum,” I say, lowering my lashes slightly, as if searching my memory. “We had dinner together, then walked around the Trocadéro. On the esplanade… he kissed me.”
Alexander’s expression changes. Sharper. More intent. Almost searching, like he’s trying to read something beneath my words.
Because everything I’m saying actually happened.
Every detail.
Except the kiss.
“That’s perfect,” Oliver says.
And we keep going like that until late morning.
“Lunch break,” Mara announces. “The pizzas should be here any minute.”
My phone suddenly rings. Andrew.
“It’s my brother,” I explain. “I need to tell him too. We’ll need his support if we want this to be credible.”
I step into my bedroom to answer.
“How are you?” Andrew asks.
“Okay… even though my life is a complete mess right now.”
“Explain,” he orders, already in big-brother-protective mode.
I quickly summarize everything the recent events, including the role I’ve agreed to play. He listens closely, interrupting only to ask questions.
“Jesus, what a bitch,” he snaps. “And to think we’re from the same family, that’s beyond me.”
“You’re telling me,” I reply.
“Wait… I might have an idea that could help you. Give me a few minutes. I’ll send it to you within half an hour.”
“Okay. Thanks for having my back, Andrew.”
“Of course. You’re my little sister. You can always count on me. Take care, Sam, and say hello to the others for me.”
We hang up, and I rejoin the group in the living room.
The pizzas arrive, and we attack them like we haven’t eaten in days.
I’ve barely finished my first slice when my phone vibrates. Andrew.
He’s sent photos.
Alexander and me, laughing side by side at family barbecues. At birthdays. On summer vacations at their estate.
In every photo, we look… happy. Close. Complicit.
“It’s true,” Oliver says, pulling out his phone. “I’ve got pictures of you two from last summer as well.”
“Wait,” Mara says. “Let’s create a shared cloud folder. Upload everything you have, and we’ll choose the best ones for the press releases.”
Oliver adds his photos.
I upload the ones Andrew just sent, along with mine.
“I probably have a few too,” Alexander says.
Within seconds, dozens of photos appear in the shared folder, displayed on the TV screen.
All time-stamped. Geolocated. Undeniable.
Mara opens the first one. The image fills the screen, like irrefutable proof of our supposed story.
Me, twenty years old, leaning toward Alexander.
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?
The love written all over my face?
“All right,” Oliver says. “We’ve got the photos. We’ve got the story. Now we need a communication plan. When do we announce?”
“As soon as possible,” Alexander replies, without taking his eyes off me. “Before Kristel makes a move.”
“Tomorrow?” Oliver suggests.
“Tomorrow,” Alexander confirms.
“But first, the Trocadéro,” Emelyne says. “We need a photo of the proposal. We’re lucky, we’ll arrive right at sunset. With this weather, the setting will be perfect.”
What?
The proposal?