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.

I came here today with one purpose: to apologize to Imogen.

But just as I settled into the crowd, a reporter’s voice sliced through the air, catching everyone’s attention. “I heard you once commissioned a painting from Giselle, spending nearly ten million. Care to clarify that for everyone today?”

From across the room, Cohen’s sharp gaze landed on me.

"No comment," he replied coldly, his voice dismissing the reporter’s question like a fly to be swatted away.

To everyone’s shock, including Imogen’s, he pushed through the crowd, heading straight for me.

"Giselle, why didn’t you let me know you were coming?" His voice was laced with a subtle accusation as if he hadn’t been the one who had dragged me here earlier.

He leaned in closer, his words dropping to a whisper meant only for my ears. "Don’t worry. After you apologize, I’ll announce our wedding date to the reporters."

He knew. He knew better than anyone that none of my paintings could ever be plagiarized. He had watched me pour my soul into each brushstroke, each detail, our shared moments woven into the canvas. Plagiarism wasn’t even in the realm of possibility.

"Alright," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

I didn’t want to resist anymore. If this was what Cohen wanted, then I would consider it my final repayment before I disappeared for good.

Under the cold, accusing stares of the crowd, I slowly made my way to the center.

"I apologize to Miss Imogen Langley."

But then, with fierce clarity, I added, "But I swear on everything I have, I did not plagiarize."

I could see Cohen’s brow furrow from the corner of my eye.

"It’s just that today, I have no choice but to stand here and apologize."

Before I could finish, the crowd erupted into angry shouts, drowning out my voice.

The live painting demonstration was meant to be the grand spectacle of the event, with buckets of vibrant paint placed around the floor for the audience to admire. But in a flash, someone grabbed a bucket and threw it at me.

Cohen quickly pulled Imogen aside, but I was trapped at the center, with no way to escape the oncoming disaster. The blue paint splattered across my body, soaking through my clothes and leaving me drenched in humiliation.

I knew I looked like a mess.

Turning to face Cohen, I saw the paint still dripping from my hair, a symbol of everything unraveling. In the chaos, Cohen’s instinct had been to shield Imogen, placing her behind him as if she were the one in danger.

Fury flashed across his face as he screamed at security, demanding they remove the culprit and call the police. He quickly announced to the stunned reporters that the opening ceremony was over.

Through it all, Cohen couldn’t bring himself to meet my eyes.

It wasn’t until much later that he approached me, his hands shaking as they hovered near my paint-splattered body. He stopped just short of touching me, his voice laced with uncertainty.

“Giselle, are you alright? Is the baby alright?”

His words barely reached me. I could hear the reporters’ cameras still clicking, capturing the scene like vultures circling a carcass.

“Cohen,” I said coldly, my voice raw with emotion, “are you satisfied now?”

I paused, my heart pounding as I added, “This is the last time I humiliate myself for you.”

6

Cohen’s gaze locked with mine, his eyes filled with a storm of confusion and regret.

This time, Cohen didn’t shy away. He shed his suit jacket and draped it over my shoulders; his touch was oddly gentle as he tried to pull me away from the chaos. But not everyone was ready to let the matter drop.

Imogen, her fury burning brighter than mine, stormed toward me, trembling with rage. She shrieked about how her art exhibition had been ruined as if the world revolved around her.

“The centerpiece,” she spat, “the photo of me and Cohen, completely ruined!”

She stormed up to me, pointing at the massive photo. “Giselle, I know you have an issue with me, but how could you destroy my exhibition?” Her voice was filled with hysteria, but in her blind anger, she forgot the simple truth. This exhibition had been mine from the start. It was my vision, my hard work, my sweat and tears.

Her words pierced through me, but I refused to back down. “Do you have any idea how much that photo means to me?” she continued, her voice trembling. “It was taken on my birthday… by Cohen!”

Through the dripping paint, I lifted my head to glance at the giant photograph; my thoughts clouded with a storm of emotions I couldn’t yet untangle.