"Oh, don’t be so blunt," came a voice, light and coquettish, from his side, though she remained out of view.
Moments later, the connection was severed. The chat exploded into wild speculation.
[Was that Imogen? She’s in Cohen’s car?]
[There were already rumors about Cohen being engaged. Makes sense he'd defend his fiancée.]
But I was supposed to be Cohen’s fiancée.
I had no strength left to fight. My vision blurred, and my last memory before collapsing in front of the camera was crawling to pick up a photo frame that had fallen to the floor.
The glass shattered, sending fragments flying, leaving the picture exposed. It was the first photo I had ever taken with the Whitmore family, taken the day I arrived at their home when I was just seven years old.
That day, I had been brought to the Whitmore residence, a mansion twice the size of my own home. I had just changed into a beautiful dress, feeling the weight of the fabric, but no one had warned me about the lace trim that dug into my skin like sharp blades.