He 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?"
