Cohen’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.
