I 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.
