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.

Cohen’s attention usually made me feel the warmth of family, but now, it only unsettled me. I couldn’t stand the thought of him remaining entangled with Imogen while I told myself everything was fine between us. This wasn’t right.

I saw the cracks in Cohen’s behavior for the first time. With everyone else, he was rational and composed. But with me, it was different. It felt as if he was holding me close yet unwilling to truly embrace me. He seemed torn, believing he shouldn’t touch me yet not ready to let me go.

“Fine, I’ll go,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.

Only then did Cohen’s stern expression soften, his approval shining through. He reminded me to take care of myself, as if I needed constant instruction, and even turned to the doctor to emphasize that I was his fiancée and needed to be cared for, along with the child that no longer existed.

But Cohen, rushing off so quickly, never noticed the doctor trying to get his attention, trying to tell him I had already lost the baby.

And as Cohen left, the doctor and nurse exchanged pointed words within earshot.

“Fiancée? Really?”

“He doesn’t even know she’s miscarried.”

5

A few days later, I arrived at the art exhibit, finding the opening ceremony in full swing. I lingered at the back, my eyes searching through the crowd gathered around Imogen, who stood at the heart of it all, glowing with attention.

The entire venue had been arranged by a team I had personally overseen. This exhibit wasn’t just an event; it was meant to symbolize the dream Cohen and I had shared.

When Cohen was young, a tragic car accident left him with a permanent limp, and his world shattered. His mother, unable to cope with his injury, fell into a deep depression and passed away. His father, quick to remarry, had another child, leaving Cohen to live in the shadows of the family’s sprawling villa, confined to a room on the third floor. Alone, spiraling into despair.

I wouldn’t learn until much later the real reason Cohen had taken me in when I arrived at the Whitmore household. I was the only one who needed him, the only one who demanded his protection.

Through grueling rehabilitation, Cohen eventually regained his ability to walk. For a long time, he insisted I was his cure, the one who healed him.

One of the most treasured pieces in the exhibit was a painting of a young girl standing beside a boy in a wheelchair. When Cohen first laid eyes on it, he pulled me into his arms, holding me close as if I were the very air he breathed. His warm breath brushed against my neck, and despite my attempts to pull away, he only tightened his embrace.

Without hesitation, Cohen bought the painting for millions, demanding it be placed at the center of the exhibit. He spared no expense, bringing in the best domestic team and introducing me to the top curators, saying my work deserved nothing less than perfection.

I poured six months of my life into this exhibit, each design born from the sketches I had drawn myself. Every scene reflected endless hours of discussion and revision with the curatorial team, all carefully crafted with my vision in mind.

But now, instead of my painting being the centerpiece, there stood a photograph, a photo of Cohen and Imogen together.

It stood out against the exhibit’s soft, harmonious atmosphere like a jarring note in a symphony. The image captured them surfing on the beach, the sea breeze lifting their hair, the sunlight casting a golden glow on their faces. Imogen smiled with effortless grace while Cohen stood behind her, his gaze filled with unmistakable affection.

At that moment, Cohen stood beside Imogen, and the two of them were a picture of perfection.

After the applause died down, Imogen announced the grand opening of the exhibit, an event that had cost tens of millions to bring to life. Confetti showered down, some of it catching in her hair. Cohen, ever the attentive partner, gently reached out to brush it away, his movements graceful and deliberate.

Then, the reporters were allowed to ask their questions.

“There’s been talk of good news from Mr. Whitmore. Is it true?” one reporter inquired. “It was previously said that your fiancée, Miss Belmont, was accused of plagiarizing Miss Langley’s work. What are your thoughts on that?”

The moment those words hit my ears, I felt the ground shift beneath me. The familiar weight of shame pressed down on my chest, still branded a plagiarist, still tied to the accusations that had tarnished my name.