That day, Imogen was hosting her welcome-back banquet, and I had arrived late due to the checkup. I never expected that the results from my afternoon visit would end up in Cohen’s hands that very night.
“Mine?”
His voice was cold and unreadable, a mixture of restrained anger or suspicion swirling beneath the surface.
Imogen, standing beside him, looked radiant in her bright dress, almost mocking. She took the results from his hand and teased, “Is it yours? Weren’t you in Canada last month, surfing with me?”
The doctor had told me the timing of the pregnancy wasn’t certain. Even though Cohen had been abroad during that period, there was that weekend... when we had crossed paths.
I wanted to explain that there was no one else. That he was the only one.
But the coldness in his gaze froze the words on my lips.
Imogen, radiant as ever, was the center of attention that evening, the spotlight shining solely on her.
Whether by design or sheer coincidence, the crowd began to pass around my pregnancy report as if it were just another piece of gossip to share.
Cohen’s face grew darker by the second.