Yan Shuyao tossed the seventh folder onto her desk, her nail polish chipped from hours of typing. At 32, she was a creative director at a Shanghai ad agency—a glamorous title that masked the exhaustion of endless deadlines and client revisions. Rubbing her temples, she glanced at the clock: 10:17 PM. By now, her husband Zhang Ming would have finished takeout and be sprawled on the couch watching sports highlights.  

The elevator mirrors reflected her tired silhouette—a tailored navy suit, a severe ponytail, faint lines at the corners of her eyes. Six years of marriage had taken them from inseparable to indifferent, and for the past six months, they’d even slept in separate rooms. No affairs, just the slow erosion of passion by routine.  

 

When she pushed open the apartment door, the expected sound of sports commentary was absent. A text from Zhang Ming glowed on her phone: *"Last-minute business trip. Flight at dawn. Ordered sushi for you."* She dropped her bag on the sofa, suddenly aware of how cavernous their 2,000-square-foot river-view apartment felt.  

 

Chewing mechanically on salmon rolls, she decided to organize her closet. Then her fingers brushed against a velvet box tucked in the corner—a forgotten birthday gift from her best friend Lin Li five years ago, back when she’d just been promoted. *"Even corporate queens need to be sexy kittens at home,"* Lin Li had teased.  

 

Inside lay a  set of black lace lingerie from *Changwang*. As Shuyao lifted the sheer negligee, memories surfaced: her college days as a cheerleader, spinning under the sun without a shred of self-consciousness. Now, she couldn’t even recall the last time she and Zhang Ming had been intimate.  

 

Before the bathroom mirror, she shed her work armor. The softness of her postpartum belly, the curves shaped by sedentary hours—details she usually ignored now stared back at her. She inhaled sharply and slipped into the lingerie. The cool lace against her skin made her shiver.  

*"Ridiculous,"* she muttered at her reflection. A thirty-two-year-old woman playing dress-up in something so provocative. But as she turned, the play of light and shadow sculpted her silhouette into something unexpectedly alluring. Almost without thinking, she undid her ponytail, letting chestnut waves cascade over her bare shoulders.  

 

She opened her phone’s front camera. The flash captured a version of herself she hadn’t seen in years—the woman who once ran along Bali’s shores in a bikini on their honeymoon. The woman in the photo had laugh lines now, but her smile was alive.  

 

A notification chimed. Zhang Ming: *"Meeting canceled. Changed my flight—home in an hour. Want late-night snacks?"*  

 

Her thumb hovered. Six months ago, she’d have replied, *"No, just rest."* But now, glancing at the lace tracing her curves, she typed: *"Get the extra-spicy crayfish from our old uni spot."*  

After sending it, she opened her vanity and spritzed on the long-neglected perfume Zhang Ming had gifted her early in their relationship—citrus and sandalwood. As the scent settled on her wrists, the front door clicked open.  

 

Shuyao stood at the bedroom threshold, watching Zhang Ming freeze in the foyer, takeout bag dangling from his fingers. His gaze traveled from her loose hair to the lace barely concealing her breasts, finally meeting her eyes. The bag hit the floor, the aroma of chili oil filling the air.  

*"Did I mess up my flight time?"* His voice was rough.  

 

She stepped forward, heels clicking against hardwood. *"No,"* she said, tugging at his tie. *"I’m the one who forgot our anniversary."*  

 

When his hands finally found the lace at her waist, Shuyao remembered Lin Li’s words: *"Every stitch of CharmWear is designed for Asian women—like a second skin."*  

 

Only now did she understand: the lace didn’t matter. What mattered was choosing to see herself again.