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.

Once everything was finalized, I was free to report to the university and finally begin my studies abroad.

"Hello, I just wanted to confirm if you’ve received the manuscript I sent?"

The professor’s voice was warm and filled with enthusiasm. They expressed their admiration for my work and eagerly asked when I could start.

I hadn’t shared this opportunity with Cohen, not with the pregnancy and wedding preparations weighing on my mind. I had planned to enroll in the fall, but I had delayed it until winter.

"I’ll be able to join soon," I said, my voice barely concealing the excitement that bubbled inside me.

The professor was kind, offering a warm welcome and even providing me with the contact details of someone in the overseas American association. To my surprise, I recognized the name immediately.

Having grown up in the Whitmore family, my world had always felt small, and my social circle was limited. I never imagined someone abroad would actually know me.

I dialed the number, my fingers trembling with uncertainty.

"Giselle, aren’t you still in the country?"

It seemed she truly did know me.

The news of the plagiarism accusation had spread like wildfire, and I was desperate to explain myself. I poured out my side of the story, hoping for understanding, but the line fell silent.

When I finished speaking, I added one final line, my voice steady but filled with resolve:

"You can inform the professor about the plagiarism, but I will prove I didn’t do it."

I thought all hope had slipped away, but then, to my surprise, a voice came through the line.

"I believe you. There’s no way you plagiarized."

"Giselle, don’t you remember who I am?"

I hesitated, the words tangled in my mind. Before I could respond, they continued,

"It doesn’t matter. I’ll come find you."

The call ended, leaving me breathless. Moments later, flight details appeared on my phone.

[I’ll be there soon. I’ll take you away.]

4

I wasn’t sure why they chose to stay anonymous, but at least the university issue had been put to rest.

I could finally leave this place behind, cutting all ties.

During my hospital stay, Cohen visited once. But that was all, just a fleeting visit.

He spent the majority of the time buried in work calls, barking orders at his secretary. He was so consumed by his own world that he never noticed I had lost the baby.

When he glanced at me, lying pale and fragile on the hospital bed, all he did was lean in and place a brief kiss on my cheek before leaving.

I turned my head, turning away from him.

"I’ve already issued a public statement. Your plagiarism issue is resolved," he said, his voice detached.

I had seen that statement. It wasn’t about me at all. It was solely a defense of Imogen, offering no rebuttal or clarity about the plagiarism accusations.

Instead, it only served to stoke the fury of journalists, who eagerly seized on more opportunities to tarnish my name.

And then there was the issue of my pregnancy.

Although Cohen had admitted I was the one he was engaged to, in the eyes of the public, I was nothing more than the unwelcome third party, using a child to tear apart his relationship with Imogen.

The public’s outcry against me only grew louder, fueled by the plagiarism accusations.

As if that wasn’t enough, someone unearthed my past as a foster child in the Whitmore family. I was mocked, called someone who deserved to be abandoned, and, shockingly, they even cursed the child I had lost.

"Giselle, consider this a lesson for you," Cohen said, his voice colder than ever.

"Take care of yourself. Once you're better, I’ll take you to Imogen’s exhibition."

"If you attend and apologize to her, we’ll go ahead with the wedding as planned."

When he left, he kissed my forehead, not in comfort, but as a command.

I had forgotten how Cohen could punish me.

He was vengeful, especially when it came to me being around others.

I remembered a time from my childhood when I had sneaked out to play with the other kids while Cohen was undergoing physical therapy.

I’d made sure to return before his session ended, but Cohen panicked. He searched for me for hours, asking why I hadn’t stayed home with him.

That day, despite never raising his voice at me, he made me stand in punishment for an hour. He told me I wasn’t allowed to leave without his permission.