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.
The smile in the painting above gleamed brightly, a stark contrast to the fragile, pale boy I once knew.
“Cohen bought one of my paintings for ten million before. Consider it my compensation to you,” she said, her words ringing hollow.
I pulled my arm away from Cohen, his hand still outstretched to steady me. With a determined stagger, I made my way toward the exhibition’s storage room.
Dragging the painting with all the strength I could muster, I struggled. The weight of it usually required a team of people, but with paint dripping down my body and no one stepping forward, I was left to fight the battle alone.