At eleven, I was brought into the Whitmore family. Cohen Whitmore, sitting in his wheelchair with a calm demeanor, promised to take care of me from that day forward. His voice had been steady, but it carried a warmth I had never known.
At seventeen, my heart, bold and hopeful, led me to confess my feelings for him. Cohen's cold response shattered me. He called me shameless and threw me out of the Whitmore family without hesitation.
At twenty-one, he stormed into my room in the dead of night and asked if I was willing. My answer came in a kiss filled with all the love I had held for him over the years.
At twenty-three, I discovered I was carrying his child. Cohen said I had exhausted all his trust.
At twenty-four, with no strength left to endure, I staged my death and disappeared.
The years I spent tied to Cohen were like fleeting stars cutting through an endless night, beautiful but tragically brief. No matter how bright they burned, their light was destined to fade too quickly, leaving nothing but darkness in their wake.
1
It was the opening day of my graduation art exhibition, a moment I had been eagerly anticipating.
Cohen had gone above and beyond, hiring the nation’s top team and pouring nearly ten million into setting up the event in the heart of the city.
Everything was perfect until three days before the opening.
His assistant delivered the crushing news with an air of practiced detachment and informed me that someone had accused me of plagiarism and all my works had been removed.
I stood frozen, my mind reeling with disbelief. Plagiarism? My works? It felt like the ground beneath me had crumbled.
Desperation clawed at my chest as I grabbed my phone and dialed the exhibition organizer, seeking clarity.
Their response, however, struck like a bolt of lightning.
“Miss Belmont, the accuser is your fiancé, Mr. Whitmore. He instructed us to remove everything. If you have any objections, he said you should take it up with him directly.”
The phone slipped from my hand, crashing to the ground with a sharp crack as the screen splintered into jagged shards.
Before I could react, the door swung open, and Cohen walked in, a bouquet of vibrant flowers cradled in his arms, his expression serene as if nothing had happened.
"You accused me of plagiarism? Cohen, you know I’d never plagiarize!" I demanded, my voice trembling with disbelief.
Cohen’s smile didn’t waver. The calm curve of his lips felt like mockery, his gaze unshaken.
"Giselle, you’ll have plenty of opportunities in the future," he said, his tone maddeningly composed.
"But Imogen just returned from abroad. She needs the attention this exhibition can bring."
"Plagiarism isn’t a big deal. It’s perfect for creating buzz for both of you."
Tears pricked the corners of my eyes as his nonchalance turned my anger into despair.
"Don’t forget," he added, his voice carrying a weight that crushed my protests, "you wouldn’t have even had an exhibition at twenty-three if it weren’t for me."
Cohen’s words rang true. Without his influence, without his family’s name, how could an ordinary art student like me dream of a solo exhibition at this age?
I could already see the headlines, the scathing criticism. The higher the pedestal he had placed me on, the more devastating the fall would be.
"Cohen, I’m begging you, please clear my name. I can’t live with the shame of being called a plagiarist."
Cohen reached out, brushing away the tears from the corner of my eyes. Then, as if mocking my vulnerability, he ruffled my hair, something he knew I despised.
"Giselle, you lost my trust the moment you tried to trap me with a pregnancy." His voice was calm, almost indifferent. "There won’t be a second chance."
A month ago, I discovered I was pregnant. The news had shaken me to my core.
Growing up in a fractured family, abandoned by my father and shuffled into my mother’s remarriage, I had been fostered by Cohen’s family since childhood. Cohen, ten years older, had been a constant presence, watching me grow up.
People often teased, "When Giselle grows up, she’ll marry Cohen, won’t she?"
What started as a harmless joke became my reality, though not his.
When I finally reached adulthood, I summoned the courage to confess my feelings, but Cohen always found ways to remind me that I was just a child under his care until that night.
That night, drunk and reckless, he stumbled into my room and whispered that if I was willing, I wouldn’t let him finish. I had said yes before the words fully left his lips.
For a year, he came to me, taking everything I had to give, only to retreat into regret the next morning.
He’d murmur, "I shouldn’t have touched you," as if the guilt alone absolved him.
So, when I realized I was pregnant, fear consumed me. I kept the secret locked away, too terrified to face him.
But at Imogen Langley’s welcome-back dinner, my carefully hidden truth unraveled. My pregnancy report was exposed in front of everyone.
That night, Cohen had no choice but to agree to an engagement.
Chapter 2He believed everything was a carefully woven scheme to trap him in marriage.
But the truth emerged later, unraveling through the investigation. The pregnancy test report had been deliberately exposed by Imogen. Desperation drove me to take the surveillance footage straight to Cohen, hoping to prove my innocence.
Instead of listening, he raised his hand and slapped me hard across the face.
"Giselle, have I wasted all these years teaching you?" His voice was sharp, cutting through the silence.
"You dare to slander Imogen? I’ve been far too indulgent with you all these years."
His words left me shaken, but my heart screamed with questions he’d never answer.
If Cohen truly didn’t care, if I meant nothing to him, then what was all the passion we shared? What was the meaning behind every heated glance and whispered word in the dead of night?
When a classmate confessed to me, why did he abandon an important meeting, fly back overnight, and drag me home? What did it mean when he insisted on organizing my art exhibition, claiming my work deserved the best?
He placed me high on a pedestal, only to rip it away beneath me. What did it all mean?
"Rest well, Giselle. The day after tomorrow, you’ll attend Imogen’s exhibition with me," he said coldly, his tone leaving no room for argument.
"You’re not allowed to refuse for any reason." His stern command reverberated through the room.
To ensure I obeyed, he instructed the housekeeper to keep me from leaving the house.
When he left, he took my phone with him. The cracked screen had sliced his hand, but Cohen merely frowned as if it were nothing.
"Still so careless. I’ll get you a new phone after the exhibition. Until then, stay offline."
With the flowers Imogen loved in his hands, he hurried out, not sparing a glance back.
The pain hit me like a freight train, sharp cramps ripping through my lower abdomen, but the anger inside me only surged higher. I swallowed it down, softening my voice, desperate.
"I don’t feel well. Could you take me to the hospital?"
But Cohen didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow down.
This was the man who, at the mere hint of a cold, used to rush me to the hospital, his face etched with concern. Now, all I saw in him was disappointment, as if my every word was a lie.
He gestured sharply to the housekeeper, his words cutting like ice.
"Watch her closely. Don’t let her wander, and don’t believe a word she says."
And as he turned to leave, he shot one last cold reminder over his shoulder.
"Call a doctor to check on her."
Clutching my abdomen, I watched Cohen slip into the car and drive away, leaving me behind.
Through the small crack in the door, I glimpsed a flash—just a flicker—of a designer bag and a pair of long, slender legs.
The extravagant embellishments and sparkling gemstones caught my eye, almost blinding me.
It could only be Imogen.
2
The housekeeper helped me upstairs, my body drenched in cold sweat.
I hurriedly rummaged through the cabinet, my hands shaking, until I found the medication I needed to protect the pregnancy. I swallowed the pills with trembling hands, praying they’d offer some relief.
It wasn’t until a long while later that the searing pain in my abdomen finally subsided.
Gently, I placed my hand on my belly, whispering softly, "I know you shouldn’t exist, but since you’ve chosen me, I’ll do everything I can to protect you."
Just as I lay down, desperate for a moment of rest, the silence was shattered by a loud commotion downstairs.
Before I could react, the bedroom door crashed open, and several people stormed in, their cameras and phones flashing so brightly I couldn’t keep my eyes open.
"Miss, they said they’re your classmates. I tried to stop them, but..." the housekeeper said, her voice filled with frustration, but it was too late.
I didn’t recognize a single one of them. But the one leading the group, her smug grin almost unbearable, looked vaguely familiar. She was a friend of Imogen, a minor internet influencer with a knack for stirring up trouble.
"Giselle, I’m live-streaming right now," she declared, her voice dripping with malice. "Everyone in the chat wants to know why did you plagiarize Imogen’s work?"
She leaned in closer, her grin widening as she spoke.
"You must know that Imogen studied under a famous master in Paris and has lived art since childhood. Did you copy her work just to get Cohen’s attention?"
Chapter 3As 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.
Chapter 4We 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.
Chapter 5Once 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.
Chapter 6Cohen’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.
Chapter 7I 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.
Chapter 8The 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.
Chapter 9"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.
Chapter 10"I’ve reached out to you before," the man began, his voice calm and steady. "I’m the head of the American Association at the school you applied to."
"I had an aunt help clean the paint off you."
"This is my house in the country. I don’t come here often, maybe just a few times a year."
"Giselle, I’ve actually known you for a long time."
"My name is Cyrus Hayes, and I knew your father."
"I came to find you at his request. He’s at the school you applied to now."
His words seemed to reach into my mind, pulling out the questions I hadn’t dared ask. Each sentence was a key, unlocking answers I had almost forgotten I was waiting for.
But when he mentioned my father, everything inside me stilled. I was struck silent. It had been so long since I’d heard any news of him.
The figure of my father had faded from my life over a decade ago. If he hadn’t vanished without a trace back then, leaving my mother and me to fend for ourselves, she might never have been so heartbroken that she chose to abandon me and remarry.
For years, I had resented him, but the ache of missing him had never completely disappeared.
What would have happened if he had stayed? Maybe I would have been loved the way I had been as a child without the bitter shadow of abandonment hanging over me. Maybe I wouldn’t have met Cohen. Maybe I wouldn’t have become entangled with the Whitmore family.
The man watched me closely, noticing the rush of conflicting emotions that crossed my face. He sighed softly as if he could see through me.
Carefully, he offered me the cup of water beside him, its warmth grounding me, pulling me out of the cold memories.
"How is he now?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
I had imagined countless scenarios, imagining that if I ever found him, I would let him have it, making him regret every second of his absence.
But now, all I wanted was to hear about him, to know he was well.
“He’s now a tenured professor at that school, and he’s thriving.”
"In his own words, he’s incredibly fortunate to have achieved his lifelong dream."
"Giselle, your artistic talent must have come from him."
In that instant, everything fell into place. I understood why he had left us all those years ago, why he had vanished without a word.
He was chasing his dream.
To him, my mother and I had been nothing more than burdens.
“He changed his name, didn’t he? Is that why there’s been no word of him here?”
Cyrus nodded.
When I heard his new name, a bitter laugh bubbled up inside me. How ironic it
Because of Imogen, the famous teacher she went abroad to study with was he.
And yet, his own daughter didn’t even know who he was, and was being falsely accused of plagiarism by one of his students.
Cyrus gently pried my hands off the cup, his fingers brushing over the red marks I had left from gripping it too tightly.
He sighed a deep, quiet sound.
“He thought you were doing well with the Whitmore family, so he never wanted to disturb you.”
“It wasn’t until you applied to the school, until I got your call, that he finally decided to reach out.”
“Giselle, I’ll take care of you from now on.”
I looked up at Cyrus, the sincerity in his words hitting me like a storm.
He was serious.
He had been entrusted by my father to find me.
The moment he truly came to understand me, though, was at a banquet during Cohen’s study abroad years.
At that banquet, Cohen had brought me along, and we had met briefly. They were classmates.
“So back then, you never told me you knew my father? You never told me I didn’t have to live as an outsider under someone else’s roof at the Whitmore home?”
My voice trembled, unraveling as I spoke, the dam of emotions finally breaking.
Cyrus steadied me, his presence a quiet anchor as I shook, feeling as if I might collapse at any moment.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “Your father thought it best not to disrupt your life. He truly believed you were happy, living well with the Whitmore family.”
Tears fell without sound, tracing the contours of my face.
Back then, I had been well, hadn’t I?
At least before Cohen and I crossed that line, everything had been fine.