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.
