Only then did Cohen’s stern expression soften, his approval shining through. He reminded me to take care of myself, as if I needed constant instruction, and even turned to the doctor to emphasize that I was his fiancée and needed to be cared for, along with the child that no longer existed.
But Cohen, rushing off so quickly, never noticed the doctor trying to get his attention, trying to tell him I had already lost the baby.
And as Cohen left, the doctor and nurse exchanged pointed words within earshot.
“Fiancée? Really?”
“He doesn’t even know she’s miscarried.”
5
A few days later, I arrived at the art exhibit, finding the opening ceremony in full swing. I lingered at the back, my eyes searching through the crowd gathered around Imogen, who stood at the heart of it all, glowing with attention.
The entire venue had been arranged by a team I had personally overseen. This exhibit wasn’t just an event; it was meant to symbolize the dream Cohen and I had shared.