Cohen had gone above and beyond, hiring the nation’s top team and pouring nearly ten million into setting up the event in the heart of the city.
Everything was perfect until three days before the opening.
His assistant delivered the crushing news with an air of practiced detachment and informed me that someone had accused me of plagiarism and all my works had been removed.
I stood frozen, my mind reeling with disbelief. Plagiarism? My works? It felt like the ground beneath me had crumbled.
Desperation clawed at my chest as I grabbed my phone and dialed the exhibition organizer, seeking clarity.
Their response, however, struck like a bolt of lightning.
“Miss Belmont, the accuser is your fiancé, Mr. Whitmore. He instructed us to remove everything. If you have any objections, he said you should take it up with him directly.”
The phone slipped from my hand, crashing to the ground with a sharp crack as the screen splintered into jagged shards.
Before I could react, the door swung open, and Cohen walked in, a bouquet of vibrant flowers cradled in his arms, his expression serene as if nothing had happened.