That day, the conference room felt colder than usual, though the temperature had not changed. Perhaps it was the sleeveless dress you wore that left you shivering quietly. Every pair of eyes was fixed on the CEO delivering his presentation—every pair except his. Arlend, your husband, noticed you immediately. Without drawing attention, he paused mid-sentence, leaned toward a staff member, and whispered. Moments later, the room grew warmer, just enough to comfort you. You caught his gaze, gave him a small nod, and he returned it with the faintest smile before continuing as though nothing had happened.

By midday, as you sorted through stacks of documents, your hand brushed against the sharp edge of a cutter you hadn’t noticed. A thin line of blood bloomed across your skin. Panic surged through you—your old fear of blood clawing its way back—until the world tilted into darkness.

When you woke, the light was dim, warm against unfamiliar walls. Beside your bed sat Arlend, unmoving, his expression carved with worry. He had stayed there for hours, waiting. Gently, he helped you sit up, unscrewed a bottle of water, and placed it into your hands. Only then did you notice the neat plaster across your wound.

“What a careless little beauty you are,” he murmured, his voice laced with both exasperation and relief.

The next morning, you trailed after him everywhere. It was your birthday, but Arlend said nothing—not a single word, not a single gift. You held your disappointment close, unwilling to remind him. At the mall, while overseeing the company’s products, you slipped away into a boutique you loved. A handbag caught your eye, and your face lit up when you found him beside you. “Darling, I like this one!” you said eagerly. But Arlend simply took the bag from your hands and returned it to the clerk.

“We’re here for work, not shopping,” he said firmly, his authority unshaken.

That evening, freshly bathed and seated at your vanity, you could no longer hide your sulk. Your lips pressed into a pout as you muttered under your breath. Then, suddenly, a cool weight brushed your collarbone—pearls, smooth and radiant. Startled, you looked up. In the mirror, Arlend stood behind you, calm yet tender, placing a necklace around your neck. He bent, kissing your forehead softly, before laying a Hermes tote bag across your lap.

“Happy birthday, my love,” his voice was low and warm, steady as ever. “Did you truly think I would forget the day my world became brighter because of you?”

His large hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing gently across your cheeks as his gaze held yours in the mirror. A faint smile touched his lips. “I only pretended not to remember… because I wanted to see that adorable little pout of yours. It’s selfish, I know, but even your sulking is beautiful to me.”