But Cohen didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow down.
This was the man who, at the mere hint of a cold, used to rush me to the hospital, his face etched with concern. Now, all I saw in him was disappointment, as if my every word was a lie.
He gestured sharply to the housekeeper, his words cutting like ice.
"Watch her closely. Don’t let her wander, and don’t believe a word she says."
And as he turned to leave, he shot one last cold reminder over his shoulder.
"Call a doctor to check on her."
Clutching my abdomen, I watched Cohen slip into the car and drive away, leaving me behind.
Through the small crack in the door, I glimpsed a flash—just a flicker—of a designer bag and a pair of long, slender legs.
The extravagant embellishments and sparkling gemstones caught my eye, almost blinding me.
It could only be Imogen.
2
The housekeeper helped me upstairs, my body drenched in cold sweat.
I hurriedly rummaged through the cabinet, my hands shaking, until I found the medication I needed to protect the pregnancy. I swallowed the pills with trembling hands, praying they’d offer some relief.
It wasn’t until a long while later that the searing pain in my abdomen finally subsided.
Gently, I placed my hand on my belly, whispering softly, "I know you shouldn’t exist, but since you’ve chosen me, I’ll do everything I can to protect you."
Just as I lay down, desperate for a moment of rest, the silence was shattered by a loud commotion downstairs.
Before I could react, the bedroom door crashed open, and several people stormed in, their cameras and phones flashing so brightly I couldn’t keep my eyes open.
"Miss, they said they’re your classmates. I tried to stop them, but..." the housekeeper said, her voice filled with frustration, but it was too late.
I didn’t recognize a single one of them. But the one leading the group, her smug grin almost unbearable, looked vaguely familiar. She was a friend of Imogen, a minor internet influencer with a knack for stirring up trouble.
"Giselle, I’m live-streaming right now," she declared, her voice dripping with malice. "Everyone in the chat wants to know why did you plagiarize Imogen’s work?"
She leaned in closer, her grin widening as she spoke.
"You must know that Imogen studied under a famous master in Paris and has lived art since childhood. Did you copy her work just to get Cohen’s attention?"