The Wife He Took for Granted Chinese Drama

Tentu, saya akan menambahkan POV (Point of View) ke setiap bab sesuai dengan permintaan Anda, tanpa mengubah format atau konten lainnya.

On our fifth anniversary, I lay dying on the bathroom floor while my husband ignored my calls to celebrate with his "best friend."

When my neighbor finally rushed me to the ER for a ruptured ectopic pregnancy, my husband arrived hours later, annoyed that I' d ruined his night.

But the real betrayal came when he forced me to drink tequila days after surgery, watching me bleed out just to please his mistress.

At Elsa's launch party, Gideon snatched the shot glass and shoved the alcohol down my throat, mocking my pain as "drama."

As a fresh pool of crimson soaked my dress, he didn't call 911.

He turned to comfort Elsa, who was "shaken" by the scene.

I survived only because of Alva, the reclusive billionaire next door, who shielded my dignity with his jacket while my husband stepped over me.

Recovering in Alva' s care, I discovered the "award-winning" designs Gideon had gifted Elsa were actually mine-stolen from my college archives years ago.

They thought I was the fragile, obedient wife who would die quietly in the background.

They were wrong.

I wiped the blood from my legs, accepted Alva's offer, and prepared to burn their stolen empire to the ground.

Chapter 1

Dahlia POV

My fifth wedding anniversary was supposed to be a night of quiet celebration, not a silent plea for help echoing in an empty house while my husband ignored my calls, choosing his 'best friend' over my life.

I had spent hours on the meal. Braised short ribs, a bottle of the Cabernet Gideon loved, and a chocolate lava cake from that fancy patisserie downtown. The dining table sparkled with candlelight, reflecting off the crystal glasses I' d polished myself. I even wore the silk slip dress Gideon bought me for our first anniversary, the one he said made me look like an old Hollywood star. I wanted tonight to be perfect. I wanted him to remember us.

The clock on the mantel ticked louder with each passing minute. Seven o'clock came and went. Then eight. I sent a text, "Dinner's ready, love. Missing you." No reply. I tried calling. It went straight to voicemail. Again. And again.

My fingers trembled as I picked up my phone for the tenth time. A message finally popped up, not from Gideon, but from our mutual friend, Elsa Rodgers. It was a selfie of her and Gideon, both beaming, champagne flutes in hand. The caption read: "So proud of my amazing mentor and friend, Gideon Knight, for supporting me at the 'Designer of the Year' launch party! What a night!"

My stomach dropped, a cold, hard knot forming where my hopes had been. Designer of the Year? Launch party? He had told me he had a "client emergency" that couldn't wait. He'd said it with such a serious voice, such convincing urgency. I had bought it, like I always did.

I stared at the picture, at Gideon's arm slung casually around Elsa, his smile wider than I' d seen it in months. There was no 'client emergency.' There was just Elsa. Always Elsa.

A wave of nausea washed over me, but it wasn't from the betrayal this time. It was a sharp, searing pain in my lower abdomen. I clutched my stomach, trying to breathe through it. It had been coming and going for a few days, a dull ache I'd brushed off as stress. Now, it was a knife twisting deep inside me.

I walked to the dining table, the flickering candles suddenly mocking my efforts. The short ribs were cold. The wine untouched. I blew out the candles one by one, the smoke curling upwards like my shattered dreams. The silk dress felt heavy, suffocating. I peeled it off and threw it onto the bed, the expensive fabric landing with a whisper.

Just yesterday, I had found out. A tiny, faint line on the home pregnancy test. A miracle I hadn' t dared to hope for after so many months of trying, so many disappointments. I' d wanted to tell Gideon tonight, make it a surprise, watch his face light up. I' d imagined him holding me, finally truly looking at me, excited about our future.

But looking at that photo of him and Elsa, his hand on her back, their heads close, I knew I couldn' t. Not tonight. Not ever, if this was how he saw our life together. My secret, our secret, would stay mine alone. It felt safer that way.

The pain intensified, a relentless cramp that made me double over. I tried to remember what the instructions on the pregnancy test said about severe pain. It didn't say anything. I just remembered the joy, the tiny, fragile hope blooming in my chest. I couldn't lose this baby. Not now. Not when everything else felt like it was crumbling.

I forced myself to eat a few bites of toast, even as the pain made my jaw clench. I drank some water. I needed to be strong. For my baby. For myself.

But the pain was getting worse. It felt like fire, then ice, spreading through my belly, seizing my muscles. I stumbled to the bathroom, my vision blurring. A cold sweat broke out on my forehead. I splashed water on my face, but it didn't help.

Then I saw it. A dark, crimson stain on my underwear. My heart hammered against my ribs. No. Not this. Not now. Not after everything.

Tears sprang to my eyes, hot and fast, not just for the pain, but for the fear. The fear of losing this tiny life I had just found, this little piece of hope in my desolate marriage. I sank to the cold tile floor, clutching my stomach, gasping for air.