I don’t know how long I knelt there, the world a blur of pain and anger, until a bodyguard thrust a phone into my hands. “It’s from Cohen.”
The screen lit up, displaying a message from him.
[From today until the wedding, you’re not allowed to leave the house.]
[Imogen and I are going to Canada. Stay home and behave until I return.]
He meant to imprison me.
I couldn’t help but feel tremors in my hands as I dialed his number, demanding answers. The call connected after several attempts, but the voice that answered wasn’t Cohen’s.
"Mm—"
"Cohen, stop it. Your sister is calling."
"Hang up."
The words on the other end of the line were laced with an intimacy that made my heart sink. Imogen’s breathless moans mixed with Cohen’s cold, commanding voice, shattering any courage I might have had to confront him.
What I didn’t realize, lost in the haze of my mind, was that an unfamiliar number had been calling me repeatedly. Dozens of missed calls I had failed to notice.