"You accused me of plagiarism? Cohen, you know I’d never plagiarize!" I demanded, my voice trembling with disbelief.
Cohen’s smile didn’t waver. The calm curve of his lips felt like mockery, his gaze unshaken.
"Giselle, you’ll have plenty of opportunities in the future," he said, his tone maddeningly composed.
"But Imogen just returned from abroad. She needs the attention this exhibition can bring."
"Plagiarism isn’t a big deal. It’s perfect for creating buzz for both of you."
Tears pricked the corners of my eyes as his nonchalance turned my anger into despair.
"Don’t forget," he added, his voice carrying a weight that crushed my protests, "you wouldn’t have even had an exhibition at twenty-three if it weren’t for me."
Cohen’s words rang true. Without his influence, without his family’s name, how could an ordinary art student like me dream of a solo exhibition at this age?
I could already see the headlines, the scathing criticism. The higher the pedestal he had placed me on, the more devastating the fall would be.
"Cohen, I’m begging you, please clear my name. I can’t live with the shame of being called a plagiarist."