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.

We were both fragile, two broken souls bound by time and circumstance.

Cohen sat stiffly in his wheelchair, his expression as cold as stone. Meanwhile, tears clung to my cheeks, but I forced a crooked smile, the kind that barely touched the surface.

It was the first smile I had managed since the day my world fell apart.

Looking at the photo, at the young versions of Cohen and me, I couldn’t help but think “pitiful.” The innocence of that moment felt like a distant dream, a faint echo of something that could never be again.

But that photo was one of my most cherished possessions. Over the years, Cohen had made it clear that no pictures of the two of us would remain. Yet this one, taken when I was still a child, caught in a family portrait, he had reluctantly allowed me to keep.

Time had yellowed the edges of the photo, its fragility mirroring our own. Now, the glass frame lay shattered, the image trampled beneath it.

With what little strength I had left, I knelt and picked up the photo, clutching it to my chest as if it could somehow restore everything that had been lost.

3

The baby was lost.

When I woke, my first thought was of the child. The doctor, noticing my immediate concern, looked taken aback before answering, “You’re still so young. What’s the rush?”

She sighed, her voice tinged with something like disappointment. “My daughter is two years older than you and still in school. Why the hurry to get pregnant?”

I didn’t want this. I hadn’t asked for it.

When I first found out I was pregnant, it was like being a child caught in a mistake, terrified and lost in the consequences.

That day, Imogen was hosting her welcome-back banquet, and I had arrived late due to the checkup. I never expected that the results from my afternoon visit would end up in Cohen’s hands that very night.

“Mine?”

His voice was cold and unreadable, a mixture of restrained anger or suspicion swirling beneath the surface.

Imogen, standing beside him, looked radiant in her bright dress, almost mocking. She took the results from his hand and teased, “Is it yours? Weren’t you in Canada last month, surfing with me?”

The doctor had told me the timing of the pregnancy wasn’t certain. Even though Cohen had been abroad during that period, there was that weekend... when we had crossed paths.

I wanted to explain that there was no one else. That he was the only one.

But the coldness in his gaze froze the words on my lips.

Imogen, radiant as ever, was the center of attention that evening, the spotlight shining solely on her.

Whether by design or sheer coincidence, the crowd began to pass around my pregnancy report as if it were just another piece of gossip to share.

Cohen’s face grew darker by the second.

I stood frozen, stumbling over my words, my voice barely a whisper as I muttered endless apologies. "I’m sorry," I repeated, but the words felt hollow in the air.

He looked at me for a long, torturous moment, his eyes unreadable. Then, as if to shut down the whispers around us, he turned to the crowd. "Sorry for the commotion. Giselle and I are indeed getting engaged soon."

The expressions around us shifted, confusion and surprise flickering across their faces.

Just moments ago, the elders had been discussing Cohen’s upcoming engagement to Imogen. Now, the fiancée had changed, and so had the news: pregnancy was in the mix.

Imogen, ever the gracious actress, stepped in with a smile, taking my arm and guiding me away. But before she did, she leaned in with a sweet, almost mocking tone, saying, "Little girls can be so naive. Cohen, you must take responsibility for her."

With those words, what could have been a gesture of love turned into a heavy shackle of obligation for Cohen.

Now that the baby was gone, I felt an unexpected wave of relief, though it left a strange emptiness behind.

The doctor reassured me, his tone gentle but firm, that everything had been handled cleanly. He told me to rest well in the coming days.

"Where is your family? Weren’t there people who brought you here earlier? Why is no one with you now?"

His words hit me like a cold wind. My heart felt hollow, a gaping void where the family had once been.

My father had vanished without a trace. My mother had remarried. And then there was Cohen…

I had once believed that Cohen would be my family forever, but now, even that was a lie.

"May I borrow your phone?"

The doctor’s voice snapped me from my thoughts.

He asked the nurse to hand me a phone, and I took it, feeling a flicker of confidence rise within me.

Years ago, I had sent my artwork drafts to a prestigious school abroad, and they had offered me a place. One professor had even asked to see more of my work, making me feel as though I could prove my worth.