"You accused me of plagiarism? Cohen, you know I’d never plagiarize!" I demanded, my voice trembling with disbelief.
Cohen’s smile didn’t waver. The calm curve of his lips felt like mockery, his gaze unshaken.
"Giselle, you’ll have plenty of opportunities in the future," he said, his tone maddeningly composed.
"But Imogen just returned from abroad. She needs the attention this exhibition can bring."
"Plagiarism isn’t a big deal. It’s perfect for creating buzz for both of you."
Tears pricked the corners of my eyes as his nonchalance turned my anger into despair.
"Don’t forget," he added, his voice carrying a weight that crushed my protests, "you wouldn’t have even had an exhibition at twenty-three if it weren’t for me."
Cohen’s words rang true. Without his influence, without his family’s name, how could an ordinary art student like me dream of a solo exhibition at this age?
I could already see the headlines, the scathing criticism. The higher the pedestal he had placed me on, the more devastating the fall would be.
"Cohen, I’m begging you, please clear my name. I can’t live with the shame of being called a plagiarist."
Cohen reached out, brushing away the tears from the corner of my eyes. Then, as if mocking my vulnerability, he ruffled my hair, something he knew I despised.
"Giselle, you lost my trust the moment you tried to trap me with a pregnancy." His voice was calm, almost indifferent. "There won’t be a second chance."
A month ago, I discovered I was pregnant. The news had shaken me to my core.
Growing up in a fractured family, abandoned by my father and shuffled into my mother’s remarriage, I had been fostered by Cohen’s family since childhood. Cohen, ten years older, had been a constant presence, watching me grow up.
People often teased, "When Giselle grows up, she’ll marry Cohen, won’t she?"
What started as a harmless joke became my reality, though not his.
When I finally reached adulthood, I summoned the courage to confess my feelings, but Cohen always found ways to remind me that I was just a child under his care until that night.
That night, drunk and reckless, he stumbled into my room and whispered that if I was willing, I wouldn’t let him finish. I had said yes before the words fully left his lips.
For a year, he came to me, taking everything I had to give, only to retreat into regret the next morning.