It wasn’t until much later that he approached me, his hands shaking as they hovered near my paint-splattered body. He stopped just short of touching me, his voice laced with uncertainty.
“Giselle, are you alright? Is the baby alright?”
His words barely reached me. I could hear the reporters’ cameras still clicking, capturing the scene like vultures circling a carcass.
“Cohen,” I said coldly, my voice raw with emotion, “are you satisfied now?”
I paused, my heart pounding as I added, “This is the last time I humiliate myself for you.”
6
Cohen’s gaze locked with mine, his eyes filled with a storm of confusion and regret.
This time, Cohen didn’t shy away. He shed his suit jacket and draped it over my shoulders; his touch was oddly gentle as he tried to pull me away from the chaos. But not everyone was ready to let the matter drop.
Imogen, her fury burning brighter than mine, stormed toward me, trembling with rage. She shrieked about how her art exhibition had been ruined as if the world revolved around her.
“The centerpiece,” she spat, “the photo of me and Cohen, completely ruined!”