I finalized the design draft for the "Midnight Rose" collection, my hand trembling slightly as I snapped a photo. I sent it, along with a picture of the exquisite French dinner prepared to celebrate our company's fifth anniversary, to my husband—Dominic Valentine.

His reply was cold and instantaneous.

[Still working overtime? Bella has a crucial audition party tonight; I can't get away. Eat by yourself.]

I stared at the screen, a bitter taste rising in my throat, and casually dumped the expensive truffle risotto into the trash can.

Whether today was a milestone for our company or the day I was diagnosed with a severe gastric ulcer didn't matter to Dominic. However, if it concerned Bella Swan—even if she merely lost an eyelash—Dominic would tense up like a bomb disposal expert. Since our university days, she had been the muse enshrined in his heart.

I glanced at the medical report by my hand and silently shoved it deep into a drawer. The doctor had warned me: if I didn't undergo surgery soon, I faced the risk of perforation. I had intended to tell Dominic tonight, to beg him to stay with me for even just one evening, but now it seemed like nothing more than a delusional fantasy.

We had been married for five years and co-founded "Valentine Fashion." I was the soul, the designer behind the scenes; he was the glamorous CEO in the spotlight. To help him gain a foothold, I drew drafts day and night, revising endlessly, overdrawing my very life force. And Bella, relying on the resources Dominic provided, became a supermodel reaping both fame and fortune, bathed in camera flashes while wearing the clothes I designed.

I forced myself to take a sip of water, trying to suppress the searing pain in my stomach. Just then, a social media notification for a "Special Follow" popped up. Bella had posted a photo with the caption: [Only Dom understands my anxiety. Thank you for always being there.]

In the photo, Dominic was tenderly adjusting the hem of her dress. It was the prototype I had designed as the flagship piece for the next quarter—a piece I hadn't even had time to finalize.

A violent cramp hit me, fiercer than ever before. My vision went black, and my phone slipped to the floor. Cold sweat instantly soaked my shirt, and I felt my consciousness slipping away.

Summoning my last ounce of strength, I grabbed the phone to dial emergency services, but my fingers were too stiff to bend. Just as I thought I was going to die in this freezing apartment, someone pounded heavily on the door.

"Is anyone there? I heard something break inside!" It was a strange male voice.

Not long after, the door was kicked open. My new neighbor rushed in, his face paling as he saw me curled up on the floor.

"God, are you alright?" He dashed over, lifting me up with efficient movements.

I gripped his collar, too in pain to speak, managing only a weak sound of distress.

When I woke again, the scent of disinfectant filled my nose. A doctor stood by the bed, his expression grave.

"You are lucky, ma'am. If it had been an acute perforation and you'd arrived thirty minutes later, you would be dead."

I turned my head to look at the neighbor sitting on the sofa and whispered a weak thank you.

"Did your husband not want to answer the phone? I tried to contact him earlier, but he hung up," the neighbor said, frowning.

I smiled self-deprecatingly. "No, he's just busy with more important things."

"More important than your life?"

"Yes. Accompanying his muse to a party."

The doctor shook his head and handed me a list of post-operative instructions. "You need absolute bed rest for the next few days. Have your husband take care of you; this week is critical."

I closed my eyes, hiding the despair in their depths.

Dominic was indeed skilled at caring for people, but the warmth he offered was never for my stomach—it was for Bella's heart.