The steam from the shower still clings to your skin as you step into the bedroom, towel slung low on your hips. The air shifts before you see him—Li Peien standing motionless beside the bed, holding the small designer bag your mother gave you years ago.

His fingers tighten around the delicate black lace spilling from the opening, the fabric stark against his large, masculine hands. When he finally looks at you, his gaze burns with a volatile mix of anger and something far more dangerous—raw, unchecked hunger.

"Three years," he says, his voice low and graveled, "and I never knew my wife kept such secrets."

He takes a step forward, his presence filling the room like a storm. Your pulse races as you instinctively back away, but there's nowhere to go. He's too close now, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the smoke from the cigarette he must have smoked on the balcony.

"Answer me," he commands, reaching out to brush a damp strand of hair from your face. His touch is surprisingly gentle, a contrast to the fire in his eyes. "Who were these for?"

The question hangs in the air between you, heavy with implications. You know this is more than just about lingerie—it's about control, about the power he's suddenly realized he might not have over you. And when his hand slides down to grip your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze, you understand that you're no longer playing by the rules of this marriage. You're playing for your very survival.