Dragging the painting with all the strength I could muster, I struggled. The weight of it usually required a team of people, but with paint dripping down my body and no one stepping forward, I was left to fight the battle alone.
Cohen’s gaze couldn’t take it any longer. He moved toward me, his face etched with frustration, trying to stop me while pleading with Imogen.
“Imogen, I apologize on her behalf,” Cohen said, his voice tight. “Giselle didn’t do this on purpose.”
“Giselle, stop this! Go home, clean yourself up. Don’t make a scene here!” Imogen snapped, her voice dripping with false concern.
But I wasn’t interested in their pretenses anymore. Even when the sharp edge of the frame cut into my hand, I didn’t falter. With grit, I shoved the painting toward them.
“You both know better than I do whether my work was plagiarized,” I said, my voice unwavering.
I turned to Cohen, the weight of the moment heavy in my chest. “Cohen, I am grateful for the years your family cared for me, but I will repay that debt on my terms over time.”
“You don’t need to feel responsible for me just because I’m pregnant,” I said, my voice steady despite the chaos. “Our engagement doesn’t count anymore.”