If Cohen truly didn’t care, if I meant nothing to him, then what was all the passion we shared? What was the meaning behind every heated glance and whispered word in the dead of night?
When a classmate confessed to me, why did he abandon an important meeting, fly back overnight, and drag me home? What did it mean when he insisted on organizing my art exhibition, claiming my work deserved the best?
He placed me high on a pedestal, only to rip it away beneath me. What did it all mean?
"Rest well, Giselle. The day after tomorrow, you’ll attend Imogen’s exhibition with me," he said coldly, his tone leaving no room for argument.
"You’re not allowed to refuse for any reason." His stern command reverberated through the room.
To ensure I obeyed, he instructed the housekeeper to keep me from leaving the house.
When he left, he took my phone with him. The cracked screen had sliced his hand, but Cohen merely frowned as if it were nothing.
"Still so careless. I’ll get you a new phone after the exhibition. Until then, stay offline."
With the flowers Imogen loved in his hands, he hurried out, not sparing a glance back.