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.
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.