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.

"Mm—"

"Cohen, stop it. Your sister is calling."

"Hang up."

The words on the other end of the line were laced with an intimacy that made my heart sink. Imogen’s breathless moans mixed with Cohen’s cold, commanding voice, shattering any courage I might have had to confront him.

What I didn’t realize, lost in the haze of my mind, was that an unfamiliar number had been calling me repeatedly. Dozens of missed calls I had failed to notice.

The paint coating my body was starting to make me dizzy. The chill of the near-freezing air bit at my soaked skin as I knelt on the ground, trapped in a frozen eternity. The wind cut through me like a thousand knives, but it didn’t compare to the deeper wound Cohen had left in my heart.

At last, I couldn’t hold on.

Just as I felt myself slipping, unsure if it was the cold or my mind playing tricks, I felt warmth, a real, comforting embrace.

It wasn’t the sharp, cold grip I knew from Cohen. This one was gentle, and it didn’t just steady me; it melted away the cold that had seeped deep into my bones.

[I finally found you.]

[I won’t let anyone hurt you again.]

The last few messages from that unfamiliar number, along with the phone Cohen had given me, were left on the doorstep of the Whitmore family home.

In that warm, unfamiliar embrace, I left behind the place I had called home for the past eleven years. The years spent with Cohen, believing we had understood each other, convinced we loved one another, were over.

It felt as if I was clinging to a lifeline. I turned to the person who had taken me away and whispered, "I want to leave the country as soon as possible. I need to completely leave this place behind."

He nodded solemnly, his gaze steady, and reassured me. His words were enough to quiet the storm inside me.

After all, he had walked straight into the Whitmore household and taken me with ease.

With the last remnants of my fading consciousness, I added, "Like how my father disappeared without a trace years ago, I want every part of me to vanish from this country."

7

When I awoke, the world around me had changed.

I was in an unfamiliar room, small but cozy. The air was warm, and the bedside table held a steaming cup of water, evidence that someone had been here recently.

The paint had been washed off my skin, and I found myself dressed in clean clothes, a stark contrast to the mess I had left behind.

As I took in my surroundings, my eyes widened in shock. This room was eerily familiar; it looked just like my childhood bedroom.

Not the one at the Whitmore house, but the one I had before I turned ten, when my parents were still alive, and our family had cherished me like a precious treasure.

"Meow."

A small cat wandered into the room, unbothered by my presence. Its soft, white fur brushed against my side, and it nuzzled me with its tail.

I bent down, a soft smile playing on my lips as I reached out to pet it.

"Esme, don’t bother her," came a gentle voice.

I looked up to find a man dressed in white loungewear standing in the doorway, his expression kind, but unreadable.

The kitten turned at the sound of his voice, letting out a haughty meow, only to curl up against me again as if its earlier defiance had never happened.

"Sorry, she’s always been a little... particular," the man said softly. "She just really likes you."

"It’s fine," I replied, my voice quiet but sincere. "I like her too."

A rush of memories hit me of the pure white kitten I had once owned as a child. Back then, the Whitmore family had forbidden pets, and I had been fortunate just to be accepted into their home. The thought of bringing my cat along had never crossed my mind.

Maybe it was the man’s calming presence, his gentle tone, or the kitten’s soft warmth beside me, but for the first time in what felt like forever, I didn’t feel the need to ask why I was in this unfamiliar place.

I opened my mouth, ready to speak, but before I could form the words, the man handed me a coat, his movements slow, deliberate, and introduced himself.