The pain hit me like a freight train, sharp cramps ripping through my lower abdomen, but the anger inside me only surged higher. I swallowed it down, softening my voice, desperate.
"I don’t feel well. Could you take me to the hospital?"
But Cohen didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow down.
This was the man who, at the mere hint of a cold, used to rush me to the hospital, his face etched with concern. Now, all I saw in him was disappointment, as if my every word was a lie.
He gestured sharply to the housekeeper, his words cutting like ice.
"Watch her closely. Don’t let her wander, and don’t believe a word she says."
And as he turned to leave, he shot one last cold reminder over his shoulder.
"Call a doctor to check on her."
Clutching my abdomen, I watched Cohen slip into the car and drive away, leaving me behind.
Through the small crack in the door, I glimpsed a flash—just a flicker—of a designer bag and a pair of long, slender legs.
The extravagant embellishments and sparkling gemstones caught my eye, almost blinding me.
It could only be Imogen.
2
The housekeeper helped me upstairs, my body drenched in cold sweat.