“I’ll leave the Whitmore family. I wish you and Imogen all the happiness in the world.”
Imogen, her eyes flashing with indifference, stepped onto my painting, the smile on her lips dripping with mockery. Leaning against Cohen, she tossed aside the suit jacket he had just worn, its fabric stained with the remnants of my humiliation.
“Cohen, this girl is clever, isn’t she?” Imogen’s tone was smug, almost triumphant. “Remember what your stepmother said? Promised she’d leave for good, said she’d take care of the child alone. But the moment you and your aunt were in that car accident, your stepmother used the child to worm her way back in.”
Cohen, who had been watching me with a hint of concern, froze. His eyes hardened, and his face contorted with something like disdain. Slowly, he walked toward me, his every step deliberate.
Without a word, he raised his hand, the slap ringing through the air like a thunderclap.
“Giselle, you’ve become someone unrecognizable,” Cohen said coldly. “Go home and think about the mistake you’ve made today.”