"No comment," he replied coldly, his voice dismissing the reporter’s question like a fly to be swatted away.
To everyone’s shock, including Imogen’s, he pushed through the crowd, heading straight for me.
"Giselle, why didn’t you let me know you were coming?" His voice was laced with a subtle accusation as if he hadn’t been the one who had dragged me here earlier.
He leaned in closer, his words dropping to a whisper meant only for my ears. "Don’t worry. After you apologize, I’ll announce our wedding date to the reporters."
He knew. He knew better than anyone that none of my paintings could ever be plagiarized. He had watched me pour my soul into each brushstroke, each detail, our shared moments woven into the canvas. Plagiarism wasn’t even in the realm of possibility.
"Alright," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
I didn’t want to resist anymore. If this was what Cohen wanted, then I would consider it my final repayment before I disappeared for good.
Under the cold, accusing stares of the crowd, I slowly made my way to the center.
"I apologize to Miss Imogen Langley."
But then, with fierce clarity, I added, "But I swear on everything I have, I did not plagiarize."