As 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.
