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.

The smile in the painting above gleamed brightly, a stark contrast to the fragile, pale boy I once knew.

“Cohen bought one of my paintings for ten million before. Consider it my compensation to you,” she said, her words ringing hollow.

I pulled my arm away from Cohen, his hand still outstretched to steady me. With a determined stagger, I made my way toward the exhibition’s storage room.

Dragging the painting with all the strength I could muster, I struggled. The weight of it usually required a team of people, but with paint dripping down my body and no one stepping forward, I was left to fight the battle alone.

Cohen’s gaze couldn’t take it any longer. He moved toward me, his face etched with frustration, trying to stop me while pleading with Imogen.

“Imogen, I apologize on her behalf,” Cohen said, his voice tight. “Giselle didn’t do this on purpose.”

“Giselle, stop this! Go home, clean yourself up. Don’t make a scene here!” Imogen snapped, her voice dripping with false concern.

But I wasn’t interested in their pretenses anymore. Even when the sharp edge of the frame cut into my hand, I didn’t falter. With grit, I shoved the painting toward them.

“You both know better than I do whether my work was plagiarized,” I said, my voice unwavering.

I turned to Cohen, the weight of the moment heavy in my chest. “Cohen, I am grateful for the years your family cared for me, but I will repay that debt on my terms over time.”

“You don’t need to feel responsible for me just because I’m pregnant,” I said, my voice steady despite the chaos. “Our engagement doesn’t count anymore.”

“I’ll leave the Whitmore family. I wish you and Imogen all the happiness in the world.”

Imogen, her eyes flashing with indifference, stepped onto my painting, the smile on her lips dripping with mockery. Leaning against Cohen, she tossed aside the suit jacket he had just worn, its fabric stained with the remnants of my humiliation.

“Cohen, this girl is clever, isn’t she?” Imogen’s tone was smug, almost triumphant. “Remember what your stepmother said? Promised she’d leave for good, said she’d take care of the child alone. But the moment you and your aunt were in that car accident, your stepmother used the child to worm her way back in.”

Cohen, who had been watching me with a hint of concern, froze. His eyes hardened, and his face contorted with something like disdain. Slowly, he walked toward me, his every step deliberate.

Without a word, he raised his hand, the slap ringing through the air like a thunderclap.

“Giselle, you’ve become someone unrecognizable,” Cohen said coldly. “Go home and think about the mistake you’ve made today.”

His bodyguards moved in swiftly, dragging me away without a second glance, their grip tight and unyielding. No mercy. No room for dignity. I struggled uselessly, but they shoved me back home, paint still dripping from my body as if the world had forgotten my humanity.

Cohen’s voice echoed in my ears, the final blow. “You need to be punished. To reflect on your actions.”

The bodyguards shoved me onto the doorstep, pressing me to the ground with unyielding force. Cohen’s voice rang out, cold and commanding.

“Make her kneel here. Let her think about what she’s done. If she’s unwell or the baby can’t handle it, have the doctor watch her. She stays down until she understands her mistake.”

I didn’t fight back. I knelt, my spine stiff as if made of steel, my body anchored at the threshold of the house.

The housekeeper, who had watched me grow up, couldn’t bear the sight of me like this. She approached, her voice soft and concerned. “Don’t be so stubborn, just apologize to Cohen, it’s not worth this.”

She didn’t understand. This wasn’t about being stubborn with Cohen. It was about holding on to the last shred of dignity I had left.

I don’t know how long I knelt there, the world a blur of pain and anger, until a bodyguard thrust a phone into my hands. “It’s from Cohen.”

The screen lit up, displaying a message from him.

[From today until the wedding, you’re not allowed to leave the house.]

[Imogen and I are going to Canada. Stay home and behave until I return.]

He meant to imprison me.

I couldn’t help but feel tremors in my hands as I dialed his number, demanding answers. The call connected after several attempts, but the voice that answered wasn’t Cohen’s.