17. “Romantic” dinner
Alexander
Do I really want to ask Sam that question?
I don’t know which possibility terrifies me more: the idea that she loved me and doesn’t anymore, or the thought that she might still love me.
It’s like opening Pandora’s box. Once opened, nothing goes back in.
Am I ready to discover what might come out of it?
I’m not sure.
I realize now that my feelings for her go beyond simple friendship. They’ve been shifting, quietly, insistently.
But everything feels so sudden, so confusing.
How can I know whether what I’m feeling is real, or just emotional transference?
After all, I was in a relationship with Kristel for three years and never once questioned my feelings about Sam.
But we’ve grown much closer over the past few days. Too close to ignore.
Can feelings really change that fast? Am I really the kind of guy who jumps from one sister to the other in the span of a few days?
No. Whatever Kristel may have done, I’m not an asshole.
Getting into a fake engagement to protect my company is one thing. But starting a relationship with Sam now, when I’ve barely come out of a breakup?
Impossible.
Irresponsible.
That said, if she does have feelings for me, I need to be careful not to hurt her. I have to find a way to be there for her without blurring the lines. Even if those lines are already fraying.
The following days pass without any new drama. We keep posting photos of my supposed relationship with Sam, and public outrage gradually subsides. The hateful comments decrease, replaced by messages of support. Our strategy is working. On paper.
David and I work relentlessly to make sure everything is perfect for the IPO.
Fifteen-hour days. Endless meetings. Meticulous attention to every detail.
I come home exhausted every night.
Before going to bed, I exchange a few messages with Sam. Just small talk, to make sure she’s doing okay. But our conversations are brief, almost cold. Carefully contained.
Alexander: Did you have a good day?
Sam: Yes, very good. And you?
Alexander: Exhausting. But I’m holding up.
Sam: That’s good. Thanks for checking in. Good night, Alexander.
Alexander: Good night, Sam.
Our messages are distant and impersonal. I don’t like the space that’s growing between us. The urge to go see her is strong, but I resist. I need distance to sort through my emotions.
The week flies by. I haven’t heard from Kristel again. I think she’s understood that there’s nothing left to salvage. Good. That chapter is closed. At least I want to believe it is.
Friday night, I pick Sam up for our “romantic” dinner—just to make our story believable.
Unfortunately, I’m still no clearer about how I feel about her.
I keep thinking about the kiss we shared for the photo.
That’s when everything became confusing.
Is this a passing disturbance, or something deeper?
I need to be careful. I don’t want to do anything that could put our friendship at risk. She means too much to me.
When Sam steps out of her building, she’s breathtaking. She’s wearing the same outfit she wore for our fake engagement. Now that I think about it, her wardrobe can’t be very extensive. I need to keep that in mind.
I get out of the car, place a quick, impersonal kiss on her lips, and open the door for her. My movements are mechanical, deliberately distant. The gesture feels rehearsed. Empty. But it’s better this way. Until I’m sure of my feelings, I don’t want to send her mixed signals.
She smiles at Gilles and exchanges a few words with him while I take my seat beside her.
“How was your week?” I ask.
“Really good,” she replies. “Emelyne and I selected the paintings for the gallery. And my graduation project is coming along well. What about you?”
“I’ve been buried in meetings,” I say. “But we’re almost ready for the IPO.”
“That’s great news. You must be so relieved.”
The conversation falls flat, and the silence becomes uncomfortable. It’s as if we suddenly don’t know what to say to each other anymore.
I try, awkwardly, to restart the conversation.
“Have you heard from your family?”
She shakes her head, her gaze sad.
Idiot. What possessed me to ask that?
“No, nothing,” she answers. “But you know what they say—no news is good news.”
She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. And that’s what worries me.
The car stops in front of the restaurant I reserved. An upscale place, exactly the kind of establishment where our “relationship” will be noticed and talked about.
A hostess asks for our name and leads us to our table. Along the way, I recognize a few familiar faces—investors, competitors, journalists—whom I greet with a simple nod. I place a possessive hand at the small of Sam’s back, playing the part of the devoted fiancé.
Dinner is delicious—seared scallops, line-caught sea bass, vanilla mille-feuille—but Sam barely speaks, and our conversation feels forced, mechanical.
Between each course, the silences stretch, heavy.
I sense the discomfort but don’t know how to defuse it.
At this rate, no one will believe we’re in love.
But is that really what matters?
Sam absently pushes her food around her plate, her gaze lost somewhere beyond me. Away from me.
“Can I ask why you look so sad?” I finally say.
A bitter smile tugs at her lips.
“You promised that nothing would change between us,” she replies calmly, but with unmistakable reproach. “But that’s not true. You’ve already put a wall up between us.”
Her words hit me like a slap. I wasn’t expecting that. And yet, I know she’s right. Before I have time to react, to explain myself, she stands and excuses herself to go to the restroom.
I remain frozen for a few seconds, her accusation echoing in my mind. She’s right. I created distance. Out of caution. Out of fear. Out of cowardice, maybe. And by doing so, I hurt her. And myself.
Without thinking, I get up and follow her.
I catch up with her in the deserted hallway leading to the restrooms. The velvet-paneled walls muffle the sounds of the restaurant. My hand closes around her wrist, stopping her. Too fast. Too instinctive.
“Wait,” I say.
She stops but doesn’t turn around.
Slowly, I close the distance between us and make her face me. Tears stream silently down her cheeks, and the sight shatters my heart—something inside me breaks. I did this.
“Sam…”
“Let me go, Alexander. Please.”
But I can’t. Not like this. Not with that broken look she’s giving me. Not when everything is finally out in the open.
And before I even realize what I’m doing, I lean in and capture her mouth.
Her eyes widen in shock, but she doesn’t push me away.
On the contrary, her whole body responds, pressing against mine.
The kiss we share is hungry, desperate. Her lips part for me, and she lets out a soft moan when my tongue meets hers.
Everything I’ve tried to suppress this past week explodes all at once.
There’s only her. My lips devour her, trail down to the hollow of her neck, where I feel her pulse race.
She grips my suit, pulling me closer. We are nothing but burning fever, need, and surrender.
And the terrifying knowledge that nothing will ever be the same.
I come to my senses, though. We’re in a public hallway, for God’s sake. Anyone could see us. I gently pull away, breathless. Reluctant.
Her eyes are uncertain, her lips swollen from our kiss. She’s beautiful, and I realize I don’t want to lie anymore, don’t want to pretend. Not with her. Not now.
“Come home with me tonight,” I murmur against her neck, my voice rough with desire and urgency.
She shivers against me. Her warm breath grazes my skin.
“Alexander…” she begins.
“Please. We need to talk. Really talk.”
She looks at me for a long moment, searching my eyes for something. An answer. A promise. Then she slowly nods.