Heartbreak Made Me Strong, Love Made Me Whole

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.

Cohen’s gaze couldn’t take it any longer. He moved toward me, his face etched with frustration, trying to stop me while pleading with Imogen.

“Imogen, I apologize on her behalf,” Cohen said, his voice tight. “Giselle didn’t do this on purpose.”

“Giselle, stop this! Go home, clean yourself up. Don’t make a scene here!” Imogen snapped, her voice dripping with false concern.

But I wasn’t interested in their pretenses anymore. Even when the sharp edge of the frame cut into my hand, I didn’t falter. With grit, I shoved the painting toward them.

“You both know better than I do whether my work was plagiarized,” I said, my voice unwavering.

I turned to Cohen, the weight of the moment heavy in my chest. “Cohen, I am grateful for the years your family cared for me, but I will repay that debt on my terms over time.”

“You don’t need to feel responsible for me just because I’m pregnant,” I said, my voice steady despite the chaos. “Our engagement doesn’t count anymore.”

“I’ll leave the Whitmore family. I wish you and Imogen all the happiness in the world.”

Imogen, her eyes flashing with indifference, stepped onto my painting, the smile on her lips dripping with mockery. Leaning against Cohen, she tossed aside the suit jacket he had just worn, its fabric stained with the remnants of my humiliation.

“Cohen, this girl is clever, isn’t she?” Imogen’s tone was smug, almost triumphant. “Remember what your stepmother said? Promised she’d leave for good, said she’d take care of the child alone. But the moment you and your aunt were in that car accident, your stepmother used the child to worm her way back in.”

Cohen, who had been watching me with a hint of concern, froze. His eyes hardened, and his face contorted with something like disdain. Slowly, he walked toward me, his every step deliberate.

Without a word, he raised his hand, the slap ringing through the air like a thunderclap.

“Giselle, you’ve become someone unrecognizable,” Cohen said coldly. “Go home and think about the mistake you’ve made today.”

His bodyguards moved in swiftly, dragging me away without a second glance, their grip tight and unyielding. No mercy. No room for dignity. I struggled uselessly, but they shoved me back home, paint still dripping from my body as if the world had forgotten my humanity.

Cohen’s voice echoed in my ears, the final blow. “You need to be punished. To reflect on your actions.”

The bodyguards shoved me onto the doorstep, pressing me to the ground with unyielding force. Cohen’s voice rang out, cold and commanding.

“Make her kneel here. Let her think about what she’s done. If she’s unwell or the baby can’t handle it, have the doctor watch her. She stays down until she understands her mistake.”

I didn’t fight back. I knelt, my spine stiff as if made of steel, my body anchored at the threshold of the house.

The housekeeper, who had watched me grow up, couldn’t bear the sight of me like this. She approached, her voice soft and concerned. “Don’t be so stubborn, just apologize to Cohen, it’s not worth this.”

She didn’t understand. This wasn’t about being stubborn with Cohen. It was about holding on to the last shred of dignity I had left.

I don’t know how long I knelt there, the world a blur of pain and anger, until a bodyguard thrust a phone into my hands. “It’s from Cohen.”

The screen lit up, displaying a message from him.

[From today until the wedding, you’re not allowed to leave the house.]

[Imogen and I are going to Canada. Stay home and behave until I return.]

He meant to imprison me.

I couldn’t help but feel tremors in my hands as I dialed his number, demanding answers. The call connected after several attempts, but the voice that answered wasn’t Cohen’s.