32. December 31
Samantha
I’m not particularly fond of this kind of social scene, but I understand what’s at stake.
Wearing a sapphire-blue velvet gown, perfectly fitted and slit at the side with calculated elegance, I enter the reception hall on Alexander’s arm.
Alexander’s presence at my side is reassuring, like a shield against a world that isn’t mine. But I can already feel the weight of curious gazes resting on us. The discreet murmurs. The sideways glances.
So that’s the fiancée.
I tighten my grip on his arm without realizing it. He looks at me, senses my tension, and places his hand over mine. A simple gesture. Grounding.
Oliver and Marion are already there, near the large fireplace, surrounded by a group of people I don’t know. Men in impeccably tailored suits. Women in designer gowns.
David and Florence join us soon after, flawless as always.
Florence is wearing a silver sheath dress that catches the light with every movement, and David sports a perfectly cut three-piece suit.
They greet me warmly, and I feel a sincerity in their embrace that contrasts with the overall atmosphere.
“Sam, you look stunning,” Florence says, stepping back to admire me. “That color suits you beautifully.”
“Thank you. You look gorgeous too.”
We exchange a few words, then Alexander guides me through the crowd, his hand resting at the small of my back, introducing me to a steady stream of smiling faces and firm handshakes.
I meet Alexander’s circle of friends and connections.
“Nathanael,” Alexander says, stopping in front of a man in his thirties, tall and elegant, wearing thin-framed glasses. “Our host. CEO of NeuraCore Tech, an AI company.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Samantha,” Nathanael says warmly as he shakes my hand. “Alexander has told me a lot about you. An artist, right?”
“Yes. I’m finishing my studies at the Fine Arts School.”
“Fascinating. My wife, Léa, loves contemporary art. She’ll be thrilled to meet you. Léa!”
A brunette woman with short hair and sharp eyes joins us, a glass of white wine in hand.
“Léa, this is Samantha, Alexander’s fiancée. She’s an artist.”
“Oh, wonderful!” Léa exclaims with what seems like genuine enthusiasm. “What’s your preferred medium?”
“Watercolor and oil painting.”
“I love watercolor. You’ll have to show me your work sometime.”
“It would be an honor.”
We exchange contact information before Alexander gently pulls me along toward other conversations.
They’re all watching me with palpable curiosity—who is this artist who captured the heart of MatchMapping’s CEO?
I play my role. I smile. I answer politely. But with every introduction, a question grows inside me, insidious.
As we head toward the bar, the question finally escapes my lips.
“How is it that no one seems surprised to see me with you?” I ask quietly. “Don’t they remember Kristel?”
Alexander’s face tightens slightly, as if a veil has fallen between us. He takes two glasses of champagne and hands one to me before answering.
Alexander’s expression tightens slightly, as though a veil has dropped between us. He takes two glasses of champagne and hands one to me before answering.
“She only met this group two or three times.”
“In three years?”
He takes a sip, avoiding my gaze.
“She hated these kinds of events. My friends bored her. In her opinion, my colleagues were nerds. Tech talk exhausted her. After a few attempts where she never cracked a smile, I stopped asking her to come with me.”
I sip my champagne, trying to understand. Trying not to show how unsettled this revelation makes me.
“And you?” I ask. “Did you go to her events?”
“Rarely,” he admits, guiding me toward a quieter corner near the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking an illuminated garden. “She turned every gathering into a networking opportunity. It was… unpleasant.”
He pauses, staring into his glass as if searching for answers.
“We had separate lives. We met at one place or the other, and that was… enough.”
I frown, unsettled. What kind of couple can function like that for three years? How can you love someone without ever wanting to integrate them into your life? Without wanting to share your friends, your passions, your everyday world?
And suddenly, I understand better how destabilizing our relationship must be for him. I ask him to be emotionally involved, to be present, to let me into every corner of his life. I disrupt his habits, his certainties, his comfort zone.
Alexander seems to read my thoughts.
“It was comfortable,” he continues, finally meeting my gaze. “I didn’t ask for more. MatchMapping took up most of my time and energy, and she didn’t demand anything.”
“Like me?” I ask uncertainly.
“No. It’s not the same at all,” he protests. “At the time, I thought it was enough. No drama, no complications. We had our routines, our moments together. I worked, she lived her life.”
He turns fully toward me, and in his eyes I see a vulnerability that tightens my chest.
“But the truth is, what I had with her is nothing like what I want to build with you.”
I set my glass on the windowsill, my heart pounding.
He steps closer, takes my hand.
“With you, I want to become better. You challenge me. You scare me sometimes, because I care so much about you that the idea of making mistakes and losing you terrifies me.”
His voice drops, rougher now.
“I haven’t always been up to the task. I know that. But I care about you. So much.”
My heart slams against my ribs.
“I know everything is happening very fast, almost brutally,” he continues, his gaze locked on mine. “But I think I’m falling in love with you.”
The world stops.
My heart explodes in my chest. My legs threaten to give out beneath me. I search for words, but my thoughts are chaos—joy, fear, disbelief.
Not I love you.
But a declaration nonetheless.
Honest. So deeply… him.
Alexander doesn’t wait for a response. He pulls me onto the dance floor. The music has shifted from lounge electro to something slower, more intimate.
His arm wraps around my waist and draws me closer. A possessive, protective, tender gesture. I rest my head against his shoulder, breathing in his scent, feeling the steady beat of his heart against my cheek.
We sway gently, and for a moment, I forget everything. The crowd around us. The curious stares. My doubts, my fears.
There is only him and me, and this fragile bubble we are building together.
As midnight approaches, the countdown begins. Voices around us shout the numbers, excitement rising.
Ten… Nine… Eight…
“Thank you for coming tonight,” he murmurs into my hair.
Seven… Six…
“I’m happy to be sharing this moment with you,” I reply, and I truly mean it.
Five… Four… Three…
He pulls back just enough to look into my eyes. His gaze is dark, intense, filled with an emotion I don’t dare name.
Two…
“Happy New Year, Sam,” he whispers.
One!
And he kisses me.
A deep, almost desperate kiss. As if sealing a promise. As if he’s afraid I might disappear.
Around us, people applaud, kiss, exchange wishes. Confetti falls. Champagne flows.
But we are alone in our bubble.
Just him and me. His mouth against mine. His arms around me. His heart beating against mine.
“Happy New Year,” I finally whisper.