At eleven, I was brought into the Whitmore family. Cohen Whitmore, sitting in his wheelchair with a calm demeanor, promised to take care of me from that day forward. His voice had been steady, but it carried a warmth I had never known.

At seventeen, my heart, bold and hopeful, led me to confess my feelings for him. Cohen's cold response shattered me. He called me shameless and threw me out of the Whitmore family without hesitation.

At twenty-one, he stormed into my room in the dead of night and asked if I was willing. My answer came in a kiss filled with all the love I had held for him over the years.

At twenty-three, I discovered I was carrying his child. Cohen said I had exhausted all his trust.

At twenty-four, with no strength left to endure, I staged my death and disappeared.

The years I spent tied to Cohen were like fleeting stars cutting through an endless night, beautiful but tragically brief. No matter how bright they burned, their light was destined to fade too quickly, leaving nothing but darkness in their wake.

1

It was the opening day of my graduation art exhibition, a moment I had been eagerly anticipating.

Cohen had gone above and beyond, hiring the nation’s top team and pouring nearly ten million into setting up the event in the heart of the city.

Everything was perfect until three days before the opening.

His assistant delivered the crushing news with an air of practiced detachment and informed me that someone had accused me of plagiarism and all my works had been removed.

I stood frozen, my mind reeling with disbelief. Plagiarism? My works? It felt like the ground beneath me had crumbled.

Desperation clawed at my chest as I grabbed my phone and dialed the exhibition organizer, seeking clarity.

Their response, however, struck like a bolt of lightning.

“Miss Belmont, the accuser is your fiancé, Mr. Whitmore. He instructed us to remove everything. If you have any objections, he said you should take it up with him directly.”

The phone slipped from my hand, crashing to the ground with a sharp crack as the screen splintered into jagged shards.

Before I could react, the door swung open, and Cohen walked in, a bouquet of vibrant flowers cradled in his arms, his expression serene as if nothing had happened.

"You accused me of plagiarism? Cohen, you know I’d never plagiarize!" I demanded, my voice trembling with disbelief.

Cohen’s smile didn’t waver. The calm curve of his lips felt like mockery, his gaze unshaken.

"Giselle, you’ll have plenty of opportunities in the future," he said, his tone maddeningly composed.

"But Imogen just returned from abroad. She needs the attention this exhibition can bring."

"Plagiarism isn’t a big deal. It’s perfect for creating buzz for both of you."

Tears pricked the corners of my eyes as his nonchalance turned my anger into despair.

"Don’t forget," he added, his voice carrying a weight that crushed my protests, "you wouldn’t have even had an exhibition at twenty-three if it weren’t for me."

Cohen’s words rang true. Without his influence, without his family’s name, how could an ordinary art student like me dream of a solo exhibition at this age?

I could already see the headlines, the scathing criticism. The higher the pedestal he had placed me on, the more devastating the fall would be.

"Cohen, I’m begging you, please clear my name. I can’t live with the shame of being called a plagiarist."

Cohen reached out, brushing away the tears from the corner of my eyes. Then, as if mocking my vulnerability, he ruffled my hair, something he knew I despised.

"Giselle, you lost my trust the moment you tried to trap me with a pregnancy." His voice was calm, almost indifferent. "There won’t be a second chance."

A month ago, I discovered I was pregnant. The news had shaken me to my core.

Growing up in a fractured family, abandoned by my father and shuffled into my mother’s remarriage, I had been fostered by Cohen’s family since childhood. Cohen, ten years older, had been a constant presence, watching me grow up.

People often teased, "When Giselle grows up, she’ll marry Cohen, won’t she?"

What started as a harmless joke became my reality, though not his.

When I finally reached adulthood, I summoned the courage to confess my feelings, but Cohen always found ways to remind me that I was just a child under his care until that night.

That night, drunk and reckless, he stumbled into my room and whispered that if I was willing, I wouldn’t let him finish. I had said yes before the words fully left his lips.

For a year, he came to me, taking everything I had to give, only to retreat into regret the next morning.

He’d murmur, "I shouldn’t have touched you," as if the guilt alone absolved him.

So, when I realized I was pregnant, fear consumed me. I kept the secret locked away, too terrified to face him.

But at Imogen Langley’s welcome-back dinner, my carefully hidden truth unraveled. My pregnancy report was exposed in front of everyone.

That night, Cohen had no choice but to agree to an engagement.

He believed everything was a carefully woven scheme to trap him in marriage.

But the truth emerged later, unraveling through the investigation. The pregnancy test report had been deliberately exposed by Imogen. Desperation drove me to take the surveillance footage straight to Cohen, hoping to prove my innocence.

Instead of listening, he raised his hand and slapped me hard across the face.

"Giselle, have I wasted all these years teaching you?" His voice was sharp, cutting through the silence.

"You dare to slander Imogen? I’ve been far too indulgent with you all these years."

His words left me shaken, but my heart screamed with questions he’d never answer.

If Cohen truly didn’t care, if I meant nothing to him, then what was all the passion we shared? What was the meaning behind every heated glance and whispered word in the dead of night?

When a classmate confessed to me, why did he abandon an important meeting, fly back overnight, and drag me home? What did it mean when he insisted on organizing my art exhibition, claiming my work deserved the best?

He placed me high on a pedestal, only to rip it away beneath me. What did it all mean?

"Rest well, Giselle. The day after tomorrow, you’ll attend Imogen’s exhibition with me," he said coldly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

"You’re not allowed to refuse for any reason." His stern command reverberated through the room.

To ensure I obeyed, he instructed the housekeeper to keep me from leaving the house.

When he left, he took my phone with him. The cracked screen had sliced his hand, but Cohen merely frowned as if it were nothing.

"Still so careless. I’ll get you a new phone after the exhibition. Until then, stay offline."

With the flowers Imogen loved in his hands, he hurried out, not sparing a glance back.

The pain hit me like a freight train, sharp cramps ripping through my lower abdomen, but the anger inside me only surged higher. I swallowed it down, softening my voice, desperate.

"I don’t feel well. Could you take me to the hospital?"

But Cohen didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow down.

This was the man who, at the mere hint of a cold, used to rush me to the hospital, his face etched with concern. Now, all I saw in him was disappointment, as if my every word was a lie.

He gestured sharply to the housekeeper, his words cutting like ice.

"Watch her closely. Don’t let her wander, and don’t believe a word she says."

And as he turned to leave, he shot one last cold reminder over his shoulder.

"Call a doctor to check on her."

Clutching my abdomen, I watched Cohen slip into the car and drive away, leaving me behind.

Through the small crack in the door, I glimpsed a flash—just a flicker—of a designer bag and a pair of long, slender legs.

The extravagant embellishments and sparkling gemstones caught my eye, almost blinding me.

It could only be Imogen.

2

The housekeeper helped me upstairs, my body drenched in cold sweat.

I hurriedly rummaged through the cabinet, my hands shaking, until I found the medication I needed to protect the pregnancy. I swallowed the pills with trembling hands, praying they’d offer some relief.

It wasn’t until a long while later that the searing pain in my abdomen finally subsided.

Gently, I placed my hand on my belly, whispering softly, "I know you shouldn’t exist, but since you’ve chosen me, I’ll do everything I can to protect you."

Just as I lay down, desperate for a moment of rest, the silence was shattered by a loud commotion downstairs.

Before I could react, the bedroom door crashed open, and several people stormed in, their cameras and phones flashing so brightly I couldn’t keep my eyes open.

"Miss, they said they’re your classmates. I tried to stop them, but..." the housekeeper said, her voice filled with frustration, but it was too late.

I didn’t recognize a single one of them. But the one leading the group, her smug grin almost unbearable, looked vaguely familiar. She was a friend of Imogen, a minor internet influencer with a knack for stirring up trouble.

"Giselle, I’m live-streaming right now," she declared, her voice dripping with malice. "Everyone in the chat wants to know why did you plagiarize Imogen’s work?"

She leaned in closer, her grin widening as she spoke.

"You must know that Imogen studied under a famous master in Paris and has lived art since childhood. Did you copy her work just to get Cohen’s attention?"

As she continued her taunting, I glimpsed the live-stream assistant’s screen, where the comments were flooding in like a tidal wave. It didn’t take long for the insults to pour in, predictable as ever.

"Amanda, the stream’s hit ten million views! Push harder!"

The camera zoomed in on my face, highlighting every inch of my disheveled state. Panic surged through me as I could only repeat the words over and over:

"I didn’t plagiarize. Every one of my works is my own creation!"

"There are drafts in my studio. I can bring them out to prove it!"

The standoff dragged on for what felt like an eternity, nearly ten minutes before Cohen’s bodyguards stormed in.

I looked at them, desperation in my eyes, silently pleading for help.

"Miss, Mr. Whitmore has instructed us to take advantage of this exposure. Please apologize on camera," one of them said, his voice cold and unwavering.

Before I could refuse, they followed Cohen’s orders, pushing me in front of the camera.

I clenched my teeth, my resolve hardening as I refused to apologize.

But as the live stream continued, something shifted. Some viewers began to notice that something wasn’t right. Support for me started flooding the comments, urging me to show my drafts and clear my name.

I thought I had finally found a way out. My body trembled with hope as I tried to move toward the studio to retrieve the drafts that would clear my name. But before I could make a single step, the bodyguards restrained me, holding me tightly in place.

The influencer, her smile widening as the stream’s popularity surged, swiftly connected her mic to Cohen’s line.

Just when the viewers seemed certain that Cohen wouldn’t appear, his voice rang out, slicing through the tension.

"This is Cohen. I can confirm that Giselle plagiarized."

The chat erupted in a frenzy, engagement soaring to dizzying heights.

Cohen didn’t offer much more, his silence hanging heavy in the air.

"Oh, don’t be so blunt," came a voice, light and coquettish, from his side, though she remained out of view.

Moments later, the connection was severed. The chat exploded into wild speculation.

[Was that Imogen? She’s in Cohen’s car?]

[There were already rumors about Cohen being engaged. Makes sense he'd defend his fiancée.]

But I was supposed to be Cohen’s fiancée.

I had no strength left to fight. My vision blurred, and my last memory before collapsing in front of the camera was crawling to pick up a photo frame that had fallen to the floor.

The glass shattered, sending fragments flying, leaving the picture exposed. It was the first photo I had ever taken with the Whitmore family, taken the day I arrived at their home when I was just seven years old.

That day, I had been brought to the Whitmore residence, a mansion twice the size of my own home. I had just changed into a beautiful dress, feeling the weight of the fabric, but no one had warned me about the lace trim that dug into my skin like sharp blades.

I felt like a trophy on display, a foreign object at a museum. Everyone approached me with fake sympathy, offering brief words of comfort before walking away with wide smiles, their kindness as thin as paper.

They all marveled at how pitiful I was, praising Uncle Armando Whitmore for his generosity. My father had disappeared without a trace, and my mother had remarried. If Armando hadn’t taken me from the Belmont family, I would’ve ended up in an orphanage.

Auntie Juliette Whitmore had picked an almond pastry from the dessert table, offering it to me. I was allergic to almonds, but I shook my head, trying to refuse.

She didn’t understand. Assuming I was just being shy, Auntie Juliette took it upon herself to raise my hand and feed the pastry to me.

Before long, my neck was covered in a rash.

But the crowd had already dispersed, moving away with Auntie Juliette, leaving me unnoticed in the corner.

Only Cohen noticed.

At that time, Cohen was in a wheelchair, and his presence was in stark contrast to the lively crowd. He was said to be the son of Armando’s first wife. After the accident, they said he would never walk again.

Ever since the car crash, Cohen had developed a reputation for being impossible to handle, and it was easy to see why. He was pale, thin, and looked fragile as if the world itself could crush him.

When he wheeled himself toward me, I instinctively shrank back. His cold demeanor sent chills through me, but there was something else, something that whispered trust deep in my bones.

“I’ll take care of you from now on,” Cohen said, his voice flat, but his words filled with something unspoken.

At that moment, I leaned against him, my fingers clutching his hand as if it were my only lifeline, the camera capturing the rare connection between us.